


its duty is to harm me, my duty is to know

by natalunasans



Series: not interested in being nice or accurate [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Artist Aziraphale (Good Omens), Autistic Aziraphale, Blood and Injury, Brain Damage, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Chronic Pain, Crowley (Good Omens) has ADHD, Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Disability, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Ethical Dilemmas, F/M, Fallen Angels, Family Dinners, Gen, Guilt, Headaches & Migraines, House-sitting, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Crowley (Good Omens), Jewish Good Omens (Good Omens), Jewish Holidays, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Major Character Injury, Neurodivergent Aziraphale (Good Omens), Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Pain, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Relationship Negotiation, Self-Defense, Shabbat | Sabbath | Sabt, Sharing a Bed, Trust, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), Worried Crowley (Good Omens), adaptive technology, assistive technology, casually nonbinary, death: or not as the case may be, fatigue, jewish!anathema, jewish!newt, miracle problems, neurodivergent crowley (good omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2020-06-30 11:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 31,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19852276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalunasans/pseuds/natalunasans
Summary: the title is from a cohen song about death, & also applies to life...whether in london or in tadfield; together, alone, or in (usually good) company;the ineffable partners talk out their fears, try to figure outwhat they areand what to do with themselves, now that they're not working for heaven and hell anymore.domestic softness > action, but there is some plot and angst (off and on)





	1. steer your way through the pain that is far more real than you

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to folks in the Jewish G.O. fandom for helping me sort out headcanons about what A&C can and can't do, now that they've resigned from their respective posts, as well as the million jewish things i haven't learned yet. thanks also to the small but indispensable spoonie!Crowley fandom, for obvious reasons. thanks to MW for asking the important questions ;)

Behind sleek dark glasses, Crowley tries shutting his eyes. This doesn’t help. Good job bright sunlit days like this are so rare in London. Sometimes, instead of keeping him warm, the rays seem to just stab right through to his brain. He closes the shop door again. “Aziraphale, I don’t think I can take you out for breakfast after all.”

They were up all night, talking (debating), both too wired for anything else. Just like old times, but also not like old times at all. All their fears and certainties have changed enough that this new life is going to take some getting used to, and that’s the understatement of the millennium… or several. Unlike alcohol, there’s no way to sober up from existence, no cure for a reality-hangover.

Crowley could’ve gone back to his flat, with its comforting dark walls, thick curtains, and the thermostat always turned way up. But that would mean being alone. 

The back room of Aziraphale’s shop is cozy enough, and with the desk lamp off, only dimly lit. There’s one particular chair that Crowley has claimed as his own, and if either of them had thought properly about it, they might have realised that Aziraphale must have acquired it with Crowley in mind. An ample overstuffed armchair, upholstered in simple dark grey velvet. No matter how ridiculously he drapes his long limbs, there’s enough cushioning to make it almost comfortable, which is about as good as furniture gets for him these days.

But now, Crowley has just made it back to Aziraphale's study and is perched on the edge of ‘his’ chair, resting sharp black-sleeved elbows on equally bony drawn-up knees, long fingers curled into flaming hair, as if squeezing his head would stop the pressure inside. It doesn’t. He lets out a noise that wants to be a low moan, but more approximates a desperate whine, and immediately regrets making any sound at all.

Aziraphale must’ve heard. He turns away from an unplugged hotplate in the corner, that nonetheless has a kettle boiling on it, and bustles over.

He bends down close, his voice quiet but urgent, “How can I help?”

Crowley shakes his head almost imperceptibly, but still enough to hurt. “Miracles don’ work on this, r’member?”

“Wouldn’t you like some tea? Cocoa?”

“Nuh-uh. ‘M … wazzit? Seasick. Without the sea.”

“Nauseous? And it just came on suddenly, again?”

“Yeah. Jus’ had a look out the door and WHAM,” Crowley mutters, splaying out his hands to mime the pain hitting both sides of his head. He doesn’t look up, though: he’s stayed crouched over all this time.

The room is not at all chilly, in fact Crowley’s fringe is dripping with perspiration, but even with a jacket on, he’s begun to shiver so hard that Aziraphale at first thinks he’s crying. 

Aziraphale stands still for a moment, holding his own mug in both hands. There’s a small sound of wood, plaster, and other matter rearranging themselves somewhere behind Crowley, but he doesn’t notice it over the noise of people in the street outside. Aziraphale gulps down his cocoa uncharacteristically quickly and sets the mug on his desk. “ _You_ need to get some rest.”

“Can’t sleep. Too much--” Crowley briefly takes one hand off his head to gesture incoherently at the universe in general.

“I know, I know. But if you just lie down in the dark for a bit…?”

“Nah,” but then, after a few beats, each of them pounding in his head, “Maybe?”

“May I?” Aziraphale doesn’t normally look inclined to lift anyone, but no one knows better than Crowley that appearances are deceiving.

Crowley turns redder than his hair, but doesn’t protest. He lets Aziraphale scoop him up as if he were a child-- no, children are more kicky and squirmy with lots of energy, aren’t they? As if he were some very weak or lethargic being of about half his current weight. 

He leans his head gratefully into Aziraphale's plump shoulder, probably sweating all over his plush cardigan (at least the prized frock coat is hung up well out of harm's way).

Aziraphale elbows open a door that Crowley is pretty sure didn't use to be there, and they go into the complete darkness of a room that didn't use to be there either. Crowley can still see, of course, but it's not as painful. 

Aziraphale lays Crowley down on a rather large bed and undoes his shoes, then pulls up smooth grey sheets and an extremely soft blanket over him. But nothing could be as soft as Aziraphale’s hands on his head, soft and cool like flower petals, like quiet water.

“You don’t sleep,” murmurs Crowley.

“Maybe I do now,” says Aziraphale, and lies down beside him.


	2. everything depends upon how near you sleep to me

Crowley slips into a troubled and fitful sleep rather sooner than Aziraphale expects… must be exhausted, poor dear.

Aziraphale isn't sure quite what to do with his own body. He tries lying ramrod-straight, like a mummy missing their sarcophagus, though the effort of holding himself perfectly still threatens to defeat the purpose of resting. He’s never needed to sleep before, but now that neither of them is working for… anyone, anymore, it appears that all miracles they do must come at some personal cost. He doesn't quite understand the algorithms behind the change[1], but the effects are jolly well clear. He'll have to pay for the sudden appearance of a bedroom, not to labourers for their time and materials, but out of his own energy.

The first time he miracled something big after what he's calling _The Trial (Not to be Confused with Kafka's)_ , he was overcome with a sudden and implacable fatigue within perhaps a quarter of an hour. He fell asleep reading and awoke a full day later with the most frightful crick in his neck. It wasn't difficult to infer the connection, so really it's about time he invested in a place to sleep. He really should have got the builders in to do it up properly, but one thing led to another and time just slipped away from him, and there was dear Crowley who'd always taken such good care of him, sitting there just _suffering_ terribly, and well, one can't just stand idly by, can one?!

_Aziraphale is being tied to a stake like Agnes Nutter, but hasn’t had the foresight to prepare any explosive undergarments. He considers calling out to the Almighty for help, but something tells him that won’t go any better than last time, when he got Her answering service. It sends a bit of a thrill right down his spine, the inherent insubordination of calling the Metatron that. Ooh, won’t Crowley be proud?! But then Aziraphale realises with a start that he’ll never get to tell Anthony J. Crowley about this little act of defiance, because he, A.Z. Fell the extremely mortal human, will be dead, and after death there is only the yawning loneliness of the void. He somehow knows he mustn’t make a noise, so he fights the urge to bewail his fate, but the effort pops him straight out of the dream--_

Aziraphale opens his eyes, then opens them wider in what certainly ought to be horror, not at the already fading nightmare, but at what he sees before him. Well, that explains his feeling constrained, or should it be constricted? Whilst they both slept, Crowley must have rolled over and sprawled onto him; and now, still dreaming, is holding on for dear life. Aziraphale wants to pluck Crowley’s fingers out of his hair, nudge Crowley’s elbow off his shoulder, and shake his legs free of Crowley's. Or more accurately, Aziraphale _feels that he ought_ to want to do these things.

In fact, it’s not that bad. Aziraphale reflects that being squeezed by Crowley might, actually, once he gets used to the idea, feel quite nice. After all this time… It’s odd, isn’t it, how in more than six thousand years… They’ve touched before, of course, just never quite like this. They've always been comrades, taking one another by the hand, fixing each other's tie (or hair, or makeup), offering an arm as needed. But they haven't, so to speak, made themselves entirely at home with each other's physical forms until just now.

But now… now it doesn’t matter if… they could even… Aziraphale’s face and indeed his entire body go quite warm as he contemplates the possibilities. Just because one’s an angel, or more exactly just because one _used to be_ an angel, doesn’t mean one’s got to be a prude. Or inexperienced, for that matter. Love is, after all, love, even (or perhaps especially) in Soho. He’s just never, until very recently, permitted himself to imagine that he could be _allowed_ to love his oldest and dearest friend, the demon Crowley. Or more precisely, as of just the other week, the _ex-demon_ Crowley. In all his millennia of existence, Aziraphale can just about count on one (humanoid[2]) hand the times that he’s managed to relax. And his memory may not be what it was, but every instance has been in proximity to Crowley.

Aziraphale lets his muscles unclench and leans into Crowley's ~~clutches~~ embrace. But the fingers covering his ear and the face pressed into the side of his neck are much colder than they should be. Crowley's squirmed out of the covers, that won't do at all. Aziraphale can just barely reach with his free hand to rearrange the duvet over Crowley's back. Crowley grunts and stirs, but doesn’t wake.

 _What are we, Crowley?_ muses Aziraphale, trying to smooth the tangles of ginger hair sticking out above the blanket. _What have we done? What are we? What can we become? And why did you wait for me so long?_

Sleep overtakes him again, but this time, Aziraphale doesn't dream.

[1] He hesitates to call it a punishment, for various reasons.

[2] It’s got less fingers than he would in his original form, so long disused that he’s forgotten how to shift into it.


	3. there ain't no cure...

When Crowley finally surfaces, he almost thinks he’s in his own flat, except for the smell of Aziraphale (not just his lemon-ginger cologne, but his… well, humans seem to call it an aura, so let’s go with that).

Crowley’s head is so amazingly clear that he feels alive again. After thinking his own version of _modeh ani_ , he lies there for a little while, just enjoying the absence of headache. 

Last night… no, it was morning then too, wasn't it? Crowley remembers being overwhelmed by the night of discussion, by trying to figure out what they were both meant to do with themselves now. He must've panicked, then, and getting ill on top of that… basically he reacted in the most extremely uncool way possible. And Aziraphale… that really happened, right? It must've, or he (and this room) wouldn't be here. Aziraphale, who definitely had other plans, has just lost hours and hours making him comfortable and safe. Aziraphale, who'd always… held back a little? has just trusted him enough to sleep beside him. Crowley can't believe his luck.

Eventually he gets up, with some difficulty. He undulates his whole body a few times, hoping some joints may settle where they supposedly belong. It’s always worth a try, anyway.

He finds Aziraphale at the little table in the study, stirring his cocoa and staring into a book. Crowley eases past with a deliberately casual hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, glances down and breathes out sharply: _Poetry. Great._ There’s a large plate of pain-au-chocolat on the table, though, and Crowley snatches one and devours it in two bites, conspicuously neglecting to think a _hamotzi_ , a bit of reflexive rebellion just in case She's keeping track. He grabs a coffee, then finally folds himself down into the chair across from Aziraphale and in easy reach of more pastries.

“Mornin’, angel” Crowley does his best temptation face, but Aziraphale isn't even looking.

 _“The force that through the green fuse drives the flower_  
_Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees_  
_Is my destroyer.”_

Crowley pretends not to know that's Dylan Thomas (whose untimely demise he had nothing to do with, and didn't even take credit for). “Swotting up to help me with my plants?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale sets his mug down sternly. His cocoa sloshes but ( ~~miraculously?~~ ) doesn't spill. “For Go-- I mean, please. Be serious!”

“Okay, okay, wha’s goin’ on?”

“Have. We. Become. _Mortals_?!” Aziraphale makes insistent eye contact and punctuates each word with his index finger on the page.

“Donno. I don't _feel_ mortal, do you?!”

“I don't know what mortal feels like, do I?!”

Crowley gestures vaguely in the direction of the street, “Bung myself in front of a lorry if you like, find out.”

A very real terror flickers across Aziraphale's face. “Crowley!”

“Sorry, angel--”

“I'm not sure you should call me that anymore.”

“Well then what _are_ you?”

“My point exactly. What _are_ we, now? After…? Look, it’s alright for you, you’re _used_ to it," (he closes his eyes, tilts his head and fake-snores) "But all this-- I suppose it's just an _inconvenience_ , really. But having to sleep off miracles, it’s not _normal_!”

“Technically, miracles aren’t normal. ‘S what makes ‘em miracles.”

Aziraphale ignores that and presses onward: “And _you’re_ in a lot of pain. You _must_ wonder.”

“Yeah, but I’ve always had that.”

“Always? Really, Crowley?!”

“Yeah, even before… Before working Down There. Wait, you can… smell… pain now, but you couldn’t all this time?”

“Only yours. I could always feel the humans’. How else would I know whom to help?”

The effect of those yellow eyes and slit pupils going large with astonishment is entirely lost on Aziraphale, who’s again staring down into his book, precisely to avoid Crowley's eyes. They both sit silent for a moment.

 _“And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind_  
_How time has ticked a heaven round the stars._  
_And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb_  
_How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.”_

“Lovely!” Crowley squinches up his mouth, front teeth on bottom lip in a mocking grimace.

“Are we going to be _punished_? Are we _being_ punished?”

“We've had that bit, no?”

“I don't mean for stopping the Apocalypse…”

“Then…?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

Crowley tries to think what else they've done of a similar magnitude, but nothing comes to mind. He shakes his head and looks up quizzically.

“For loving each other.”

“I don’t thi-- wait-- _you_ love _me,_ too?!”

“Of course, I always have done, Crowley,” as if it was the most obvious bloody thing in the world. And perhaps, to anyone other than Crowley, it was.

Aziraphale rushes on, “but it wasn't permitted before, because of our… allegiances? Shall we say? Anyway, that's not the point!”

“Blimey… coulda sworn it _was_ the point. You lot -- er, nice people like you… very big on love, generally.”

Aziraphale's eyes open wide as he makes a small gasp. “You clever old dev-- Sorry, you clever old dear, I think you're onto something!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Modeh_Ani
> 
> https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/the-blessing-over-bread-hamotzi


	4. i freeze with fear and I'm there for you

There aren't many people on the train at this hour of night, and none are particularly eager to sit next to the extremely tall figure in the black hoodie. They're skeletally thin, though their clothes are so baggy you can't be sure. Their hood hides their face, but people who happen to get a glimpse are good at thinking they've seen something much more imaginable than what is actually there.

If one _were_ close enough, one would not only see a skeleton-print glove lift up a battered old smartphone and insert it into one side of the hood, but would hear half of a conversation that didn’t at all match what one would’ve thought the figure ought to sound like:

THAT WOULD DEPEND, says the voice, managing to seem disembodied even though one were looking right at their physical form, ON WHAT YOUR QUESTION IS.

The hooded figure listens, then responds, AH. YES, THAT _IS_ WITHIN MY PURVIEW.

… I CAN CHECK MY RECORDS. BUT IT WOULD BE BEST IF WE MET IN PERSON.

… NO, NO, NOT LIKE THAT.

… YES, JUST AS A MATTER OF PROTOCOL.

… OF COURSE, I UNDERSTAND, NO OFFENSE TAKEN.

* * *

“You just _rang them up_?” Crowley asks, incredulous.

“Why not? They're in the directory.” Naturally, Aziraphale had kept all his files from Above, neatly catalogued according to his own system.

“Oh. We didn't _get_ directories, Down There.” Crowley must be still feeling bitter about the working conditions.

“At least you’re well shut of Below, now. _And_ we've got an appointment with Death themself later today.”

“Wait, like…”

“No, not like that. I asked. They just need to be sure it's us and not other… beings… with the same names.”

“Oh, they want to smell us,” Crowley flares his nostrils and flicks the air with his (alternate) tongue.

“Er… Something like that.” Does Crowley _intend_ to be so _attractive_? Those serpent-like gestures do make Aziraphale terribly… nervous.

“And we’re _sure_ that Death can’t lie?”

“As I understand it, they _could_ if they really wanted to, but they _don’t_.”

“S’pose that’s good enough to be going on with. Beats jumping in front of a train.”

Aziraphale regards him carefully. Now that he can sense Crowley’s pain, of course, Aziraphale only needs to look for ‘tells’ of Crowley’s psychological state. His body radiates with countless aches, and Aziraphale makes a mental note not to expect him to walk too far today. But Crowley’s left eyebrow quirks up, his tired eyes still wrinkle at the corners, and his mouth seems poised to laugh at any moment. Aziraphale feels a surge of gratitude, although these days he’s unsure where to direct it.

* * *

They take a bus to St. James Park, as Crowley hasn’t volunteered to drive them in the Bentley since Adam rebooted reality. Aziraphale desperately wants to ask about this, but hasn’t dared.

In the bus, several people are already standing, hanging onto the overhead handles. As Crowley and Aziraphale approach the rear door and determine that there are no spaces free anywhere, a broken seat miraculously fixes itself just in time for Crowley to slide into it. He looks up and Aziraphale can see the warm glow of his eyes through the dark glasses.

“Thanks, angel,” he mouths.

Aziraphale hasn’t the heart to remind him.

* * *

The two man-shaped beings are sitting on one of their usual benches, equidistant from the spies and the ducks. Crowley still seems in remarkably good spirits, though he’s oddly content to lounge in the sun without talking. No doubt the prospect of obtaining another piece of their current puzzle has left him feeling reflective.

As the time of the appointment nears, Aziraphale quietly begins to --in common parlance-- freak the fuck out. Angels don't have a heartbeat, but the pulsing of his mind drowns out the background noise of the park denizens around them and the distant sounds of the metropolis beyond. He feels so lightheaded that it’s a good thing he’s already sitting down. Aziraphale bends forward and tries breathing (in… and out… deep… and slow…) but since angels don't have to do that either, it doesn't quite work. He needs to focus on something, anything. His own hands are occupied gripping the edge of the bench, but his eyes light on one of Crowley’s. Aziraphale observes minutely, noting every freckle, vein, or small scar. In any other circumstance, the tenderness that wells up in him would serve as a distraction from all else in the world, but now Aziraphale’s anxiety only rises.

“Crowley,” he finally says in a barely audible murmur, “I need a favour.”

“What is it?” Crowley whispers back.

“This is terribly embarrassing, but…”

Crowley must’ve actually sat up and looked at him, because he grasps Aziraphale’s hand in both of his before Aziraphale can manage to blurt out the request. The grip of Crowley’s cool, firm palms is an anchor to the present physical reality.

“You okay?”

“No,” Aziraphale almost sobs.

“This about the meeting?”

“I suppose it must be.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Crowley!”

“Seriously. The absolute worst.”

“Death could take us today.”

“And if they do? Any regrets?”

Aziraphale doesn’t even have to pause: “Ever so many.”

“Anything you can do about that right now?”

Aziraphale gasps. “Not in the middle of St. James Park!”

Crowley is definitely winking behind his glasses. “Okay. So. Next worst?”

“We could find out we’re mortal, with only a short while to live.”

“You’ve cared for people like that. How’d they handle it?”

“They lived… Until they died.” The simple phrase is weighted down with memories. The threat of his own mortality has given Aziraphale a different perspective on friends’ loss than when he first experienced it.

“Okay. Wouldn’t be the first time we borrowed a good plan from the humans.”

“And if we’ve got a reprieve until The Really Big One, as you called it?”

“That’s a damn sight more time on Earth than we thought we had a couple of weeks ago.”

BOLD OF YOU TO ASSUME, says a figure who has crept up unnoticed behind them, THAT YOU BOTH SHARE AN IDENTICAL FATE.

If it were possible for Aziraphale to have a heart attack, he would've died from panic here and now. Luckily for all concerned, it isn’t.

“How _dare_ you?!” Crowley hisses at Death themself.

I COULD SAY THE SAME THING.

“Perhaps we could all… take a moment to… breathe? Start over properly?” Aziraphale manages, in between trying to do exactly that.

Crowley doesn’t. “So what's with the memes? And the outfit?”

TRYING SOMETHING NEW.

Aziraphale and Crowley say simultaneously, “It suits you!” and “It doesn't suit you!”

Death laughs. It's not a sound you necessarily want to hear twice.

YOU'RE NOT THE ONLY ONES THAT ARE RELIEVED ABOUT THE APOCALYPSE. I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW I LIKE THIS JOB. HUMANS ARE… INTRIGUING. ALMOST--

“Ineffable?” hazards Aziraphale.

SO FAR, YES.

“We've noticed. So what's it to be? You've smelt us; we're the real deal. What's our paperwork say?”

“Are we still… immortal?”

EXCEPTING A FEW PERKS OF YOUR FORMER EMPLOYMENT, YOU ARE WHAT YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN. UNEARTHLY SPIRITS. PRIMORDIAL BEINGS OF DIVINE ORIGIN…

They turn to Crowley and enunciate very deliberately: BNEI ELOKIM.

Crowley disappears.

Aziraphale shrieks and tries to jump up, but Death has got hold of his shoulders like a particularly bony vise.

HE HASN'T GONE FAR. NOW GO, BOTH OF YOU, AND _LIVE_. They vanish.

Aziraphale is darting looks in every direction, unsure where to start his search, when a mighty _splorsh_ draws his gaze back to the lake. Ducks, geese and the odd swan explode out of the water in a damp cloud of feathery indignation. Scandalous! How dare anyone interrupt their feast!

Aziraphale has reached the edge of the lake by the time Crowley's head appears above water.

The lake isn't deep at this point. They wade towards each other.

Aziraphale doesn't even spare a thought for his clothes. “What happened?!”

Crowley spits out a mouthful of water, breadcrumbs, and algae. “They said one of Her Names, with _kavanah_ \-- with intention. Death is an arsehole.”

Aziraphale supposes it makes some kind of sense that the name of the Almighty could banish a demon. Or slightly banish an ex-demon?

There are things he still doesn't understand about Crowley's connections to Judaism, but he trusts that he will still have time to learn them all. (While he _has_ understood correctly that the two of them are still immortal, Aziraphale perhaps slightly underestimates the complexity of Jewish culture.)

Neither of them notice that a crowd has gathered around the lake. Aziraphale takes Crowley's wet face in his hands, and kisses him firmly on the lips.

The crowd bursts into applause, thinking they've just seen a super weird proposal, and then disperses as quickly as they gathered, on to the next spectacle that human life affords.

What they miss is that Crowley wasn't quite done getting all the lake water out, and so, as first kisses go, the results aren't spectacular. Or rather, they're spectacularly awful.

Crowley chokes, and spews up more mud and plants onto Aziraphale. He's soon bent over double, first coughing, then laughing, then coughing again.

Aziraphale, now thoroughly drenched and muddied but undaunted, supports Crowley as the two of them slip and squelch their way up out of the pond.

They sit on the grass for a while, stunned but not silent, as every few moments Crowley spits out a leaf or a bit more mud, or Aziraphale finds another strand of plant matter in his hair… and then they'll both start cracking up all over again.

Some time passes before it occurs to them to miracle each other's clothes clean and dry, and they fall asleep there in the sun.


	5. johnny walker wisdom running high

It’s only one in the afternoon but great dark clouds have closed off the sky, and absolutely no one is surprised when it starts bucketing down like anything.

The bookshop is closed, of course. Crowley, hands full of carrier bags, has let himself in (by glaring pointedly at the lock) just before the rain started.

He finds Aziraphale in his study, a blank spiral-bound book open in front of him. Crowley kisses him on the head in passing.

“Hallo, angel.”

“Hullo, dear. I still think we need a different word.”

“Too many bad memories?”

“Too many good ones.”

“That’s right, you liked your job… When they weren’t bullying you.”

“Crowley!”

“It’s _true_.”

“Yes, but… maybe I'd rather forget that part.”

Crowley doesn’t protest, just starts unpacking the food he’s brought, and arranging it on the table. Normally they’d still go out to their favourite restaurants, but Aziraphale said he felt like staying in, and Crowley’s not complaining.

The rooms at the back of the shop seem warmer than ever, especially for a day like this. Did Aziraphale somehow manage to miracle central heating into this old building? How long would he have had to sleep that one off?! Either way, Crowley’s glad to be out of the damp. He can still easily persuade the rain not to fall on him, but nothing can persuade it not to make his joints hurt like h-- well, not that bad, but rather worse than usual.

“Besides, if we’re talking about categories instead of jobs, you’re an angel too.”

“Aziraphale, don’t.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know…”

“You’ve never told me much about that… time in your life,” says Aziraphale, not really expecting an answer.

“I’m not sure I _can_. Part of falling…” his voice catches.

Aziraphale finishes pouring wine for them both, and silently takes Crowley’s hand.

“I can remember the bare facts of… before. My old name, what bits of creation I worked on, that sort of thing. But they erased all the… how it _felt_ to live those things. Emotional memories, is it?… so you feel as if you’ve lost all your _actual experiences_.”

“How? Why?!” At least Aziraphale doesn’t ask if Heaven does the mind-wipe on your way out, or Hell does it on your way in. He has to understand by now that it doesn’t matter.

“I s’pose the theory is, that if we remembered what it felt like to be angels, we wouldn’t make very good demons, would we? Or-- well, you know what I mean.”

“I wouldn’t say you were bad at your job,” says Aziraphale carefully, “and I know you even took pride in some of it… but… you never were what I would call _properly evil_.”

“You keep telling me that…” Crowley can’t help smiling a little. He has no tough-guy demon image to maintain anymore, except out of habit.

“Well, the way I see it… it’s not that there’s good in you because you used to be an angel. There’s good in you because of the _person_ you are, the choices you make.”

“And I s'pose that’s the same reason why you’re entirely too… intresting to fit in Upstairs.”

Aziraphale can’t really deny this, but doesn’t know what to say, so he raises his wine towards Crowley.

“ _L’chaim_!” returns Crowley, clinking it with his own glass.

* * *

Some hours (and bottles) later, Crowley blurts out: “Y’know, it’s… sort of a relief that you’re not an ang--, not _working_ as an angel anymore. I was always afraid…”

“Of me? I was a bloody great fool, I should never have said… the things I used to say, about demons.”

“Nonono… Angels thinkin’ they’re better, comes with the territry. No, no, I was afraid _for_ you.”

“Because of the… bullying?”

“Afraid you’d… fall, too. Because of hangin’ around with me. That they’d make you forget… everything you loved. You were an angel for _ages_ , you really believed in all that.”

“Oh… Oh, Crowley… It would’ve been worth it. I wouldn’t have missed knowing you for the world… and you know how much I like the world.”

Crowley thinks there might be something wrong with Aziraphale’s logic, but his head’s suddenly feeling much too fuzzy to explain it. He settles for saying, “At least you’re safe now.”

“ _We’re_ safe now.”

They drink to that, and everything else they can think of.

* * *

It's quite a while before Crowley finally remembers to ask: “So, Zirfl, wha's wi' the skeshbook?”

“Oh! You know, I thought I might take up drawing again! But it's a bit imitating… intimating… ‘s a bit _scary_.”

“Nooooo, you'll be graaand! Draw me?” Crowley raises an eyebrow flirtatiously. He’s already comfortably sprawled out across the entire sofa.

“Promish you won' be cross… if iz no good.” Aziraphale rather wants to give it a go. Maybe it's the alcohol or the new sense of freedom that helps him relax, but he finds his old fluency with a pencil coming back to him easily.

After sketching-in the basic pose, he starts on the head: both a good and a bad thing, that. Hard to capture the multi-dimensionality of _anyone_ , let alone his speed-demon (note to self, never call Crowley that to his face) … and his face changes like the weather. But once Aziraphale’s finished that bit, it won't matter if Crowley falls asleep while he finishes up drawing the body. He'd struggle to draw Crowley sober: never sits still, bless him. That'd be a nice cubist… thingy, wouldn't it? Immortal Being Fidgeting on a Chair. Pity that realism is more Aziraphale's style.


	6. hey that's no way to say goodbye

Crowley wakes up thirsty, headachy, and grumpy. He could miracle a hangover out of his system, but then he’d just have to go to sleep again, so he finds some mineral water and puts back about a litre of it, then does the snake thing that he always has to do, shaking out his whole body to see what settles.

Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen, though Crowley checks the shop, the bedroom, and the lavatory. He can’t smell anything wrong. Probably just popped out for a moment? But earlier he wanted to stay in, and that usually means it’s the kind of day where Aziraphale can’t deal with people at all. Crowley wanders about listlessly, sits down, gets up, looks at the leftover food but doesn’t eat any of it. Aziraphale has left his sketchbook on the recliner he was sitting in, and Crowley picks it up, curious to see how his portrait turned out. There are a few sketches done from memory, some of them also of him, but the page Aziraphale drew today has been torn out. Ah, it can’t have been that bad, not when the ones drawn from memory are really, he has to admit, as accurate as they are indulgent.

Something’s not right. Crowley searches the wastepaper baskets. He finds the usual things: receipts, crisp packets, incomplete miracle reports in longhand (binned for spelling errors), but no drawing. He pulls out his mobile then remembers that he still hasn’t convinced Aziraphale to get one. And if his suspicions are correct, contacting Aziraphale the way Crowley’s superiors used to contact him is much too dangerous.

The final straw is a small display of books knocked over near the door, and a lingering, if generic, smell of Above. Aziraphale didn’t leave of his own accord.

Just in case he’s overreacting, Crowley leaves a note “ring me????” and goes out, locking the shop door behind him with a glare. His first thought is to walk the few blocks to his own flat and get the Bentley, but the way things work now, it’s basically useless to him. Crowley never took a driving test, and his car hasn’t actually got a functioning engine, so the level of miracle required to run it would knock him right out for some hours, and he would miss whatever he was driving to.

He tastes the air in every direction. Have to follow his nose, or take a leap of fai-- well… some kind of leap, anyway. Crowley prays, though, in the back of his mind, wordless and desperate. And then he turns left and starts walking. He doesn’t even remember to repel the rain until his clothes are already soaked.

* * *

On principle, Crowley checks the few bars that Aziraphale still likes… he’s a bit old-fashioned for the current gay scene but there _are_ a few nightspots left where he doesn’t feel so out of place. As expected, not a scent of him there.

Back on the sodden pavement, Crowley hasn’t looked this closely at the rough-sleepers in a while. And there are a lot of them. Normally, he curses the nearest wealthy passer-by with a sudden desire to empty their wallet in the homeless person’s general direction. This time he’s got to be sure whether a person holed up in a corner is an angel unaware (or rather, unconscious), but he finds only humans fallen from society. A few people have a go at him for getting into their space, but one wishes him good luck finding whoever he’s looking for. He’ll need it. Crowley limps onward, taking out his frustration by disintegrating some hostile architecture.

Soho Square park is deserted. Between night, rain, and the mist rising from the gardens, it’s hard to see anything but the tree-trunks. Crowley pockets his dark glasses, and sits down on a bench under one of the tallest trees, to massage his aching legs. Surely he’s on a fool's errand. London is too big, and a wet and tired ex-demon suddenly seems painfully small. Crowley leans back and looks up into the impenetrable dark canopy of leaves hiding the impenetrable dark canopy of stormy sky. A large raindrop hits him exactly in the eye and Crowley lets out an indignant yelp. He almost thinks he hears an answering groan, but it must have been the beginnings of the thunder that’s starting up again.

One kind of fog is building up around him, but, perhaps due to a small adrenaline surge from the surprise eyewash, another kind of fog in his brain clears a little. Crowley can smell that somewhere, not far from his bench, some piece of reality has gone terribly wrong.

* * *

Crowley gets up slowly, trying to feel out the situation, unsure if he’s going to be forced to behave as predator, prey, or something else entirely.

He turns and can see, now, what he’s aiming for: a disturbance of ethereal energy, but it’s not the aura of the angel Aziraphale. There’s only one being there, and it’s alive, but it’s also sprawled at the base of the tree, bedded in mud and covered in fog. Crowley approaches carefully. The closer he gets, the more it stinks of spatiotemporal improbability. When he sees it’s roughly Aziraphale’s shape and wearing muddied light-coloured clothes, he cries out again. Crowley falls to his knees by the figure. Plump limbs lie at physically-impossible angles, and whitish curls are stained dark red from a head injury that looks at a glance like it ought to have been fatal. Blood still trickles out, runs down the tree-root he must have hit, and combines silently with the mud below. There are flashes of lightning. In the strange light, and through Crowley’s tears, the grey and sunken face is definitely Aziraphale’s, but it also very much isn’t. The pale skin is bruised and torn, perhaps by branches, perhaps by something else. He isn’t breathing, but neither is Crowley, as that’s optional. A convulsion shakes the body, and one eye struggles slightly open. Crowley stares transfixed. The face that should be Aziraphale manages a small smile with scraped and bleeding lips, then the eye unfocuses and closes again.

He can’t call an ambulance, no hospital would know what to do with celestial-issue bodies. He can’t call a cab or an Uber, either, as everything looks much too suspicious. Crowley does the only thing he can think of: he drags the body that ought to be Aziraphale into his lap, apparates them both to his flat, and immediately passes out.


	7. that's how broken I would be

A terrible sound, like souls in torment, frightens Crowley awake. He thinks he’s back Down There, listening to some poor bastard’s unsatisfactory performance review, until he remembers the events of the previous night, and rolls over toward the noise.

The being formerly known as Aziraphale is lying next to Crowley on his living room floor, just conscious enough to feel every one of the many injuries to his physical form. He makes an eerie, mind-tearing, ululating wail of someone who at the moment knows nothing but pain.

The noise threatens to drive Crowley mad, and he really really needs to concentrate right the fuck now if he’s going to be able to do anything. He snaps his fingers, and the being is unconscious again. He wants to just put everything back the way it was, but intuits on some level that this is impossible. It’s hard to even know where to start.

Crowley thinks his version, in plural grammar this time, of the _grateful-to-be-alive_ prayer, and he hopes it’s true. He then makes a mental list. First, he’ll need some protein and a _lot_ of caffeine. And for that, he needs to get vertical.

Standing up is overrated, especially after some hours in cold wet clothes on a hard floor, but with the state of his knees, crawling would be worse. He finally manages it, and staggers into the kitchen to the fridge. He eats some ham and cheese _just on principle_ and gulps down a vile but effective energy drink, then washes his hands.

He’s been trying to sort out what exactly he thinks has happened. The unconscious one is obviously the same man-shaped being who shared lunch and rather a lot of wine with Crowley and then was removed from the bookshop by force. But that was Aziraphale, and this is not. There’s one obvious explanation (growing in the back of his mind since he first smelt the wrong aura) for why the being lying on his floor is no longer the Angel Aziraphale. What Crowley always feared has happened: someone has assigned Aziraphale as Fallen, and then, because this is what passes for a clever joke Upstairs, they arranged to have him injured in an actual physical fall. None of this should have happened, once Aziraphale was no longer in the employ of Above. But everyone knows by now that Up There have ways of getting around their own regulations.

If Aziraphale did Fall, then he’s been memory-wiped like Crowley was. Who is this person even going to _be_ when he wakes up? An angel falls to become a demon, but what does an ex-angel become? He’ll need a new name, for starters. Will there be _anything_ left between them? He surely won’t remember Crowley. Six thousand years of shared experiences, gone like _that_. He shakes his head. Can’t think about all of this now: it just makes him want to get blind-drunk for the next few decades. But there’s gotta be a chance…? He can’t call this person Aziraphale anymore, but it’s for Aziraphale’s sake that he’s got to try and help him.

Crowley reviews the priorities. Even with a bit of extra alertness, there’s only a certain amount of miracling he can do before passing out again, and he wants to be as thorough as possible.

First, the head. There’s a great gash that explains most of the bleeding, but there’s also a dent in the skull. As he runs his hands over the various areas, he knits as much as possible back together, imagining it as it should be. His theory is as good as confirmed when he notices that the blood doesn't burn his fingers. Crowley’s already starting to lag, but next up are the limbs. He loses count of how many major and minor fractures have been repaired, but it’s good to see the legs and arms going only in the directions they’re supposed to. Not everyone is as loosely put together as Crowley, after all, and that's probably a good thing. He knows that he’s doing a slapdash job of this, and that it may not all heal perfectly, but there will at least be immediate relief. Crowley himself isn’t feeling very well, but he doesn’t have time for that right now, so he imagines very hard that he can go on indefinitely.

Crowley considers undressing the unconscious figure. He goes so far as to turn out the pockets, and finds (among the usual lint, coins from various centuries, and sweets mostly from the 21st), the drawing from the other day. Once neatly folded, it’s now a bit crushed and stained with rain, mud, and a little of the artist’s own blood. Crowley unfolds the drawing: it’s _very_ good. He makes a noise as if he were trying to swallow his own heart, and folds the paper back up.

Aziraphale is… (was?) always so proper and so physically closed off, modesty with a side of dandyism, if that’s possible. The way he could only feel stylish _and_ comfortable with all those layers between him and the world. It seems an invasion to undo all of that with him asleep, so finally, Crowley snaps his fingers to replace the soiled clothing with a set of grey silk pyjamas… and a warm dressing-gown for good measure. He puts the drawing in the breast-pocket of the pyjama top, just in case.

Crowley’s almost at his ultimate crashing-point, he can feel it… But he’s got to get this person (that isn’t quite Aziraphale anymore) somewhere better to recuperate than the floor. Apparating is faster and safer, and then he grits his teeth, trying to stay alert long enough to make not-Aziraphale as comfortable as possible before he can let himself collapse. Crowley smooths the luminous hair off the still battered-looking face. He’s afraid to make any personal gestures to the potential stranger currently motionless on his black satin sheets, but he wants him to know-- he wants _Aziraphale_ to know--

Crowley flings himself down in a chair. _By all that’s unholy_ , he thinks before passing out, _I just want my angel back._


	8. how to shoot at someone who outdrew you

Crowley is stuck. He thinks he’s having one of those nightmares where you can’t move, but in fact he’s awake. Not only does his wet, muddied clothing seem to have solidified overnight and welded itself to the soft leather chair, but it hurts to move his back and there’s not much strength in his legs. He wishes demons’ humanoid forms actually had prehensile tails, but of course they don’t. No horns, either.[1]

He checks on the figure in the bed. There’s no change, except the aura seems stronger and the levels of pain are nothing like before.

Crowley does finally manage to vault himself upright (gotta do it quick, like tearing off a plaster). Every step stabs him through with incandescent pain and he has to bite his lip to stop from crying out. Moving gingerly, he discards the clothes from last night and changes into black yoga pants, a grey oversized jumper, and black fuzzy socks.

Now to wait.

He limps into the living room, miracles away the last of the blood and earth from the carpet, and sits on the sofa, a long expanse of burgundy leather chosen precisely because it was long enough for even him to stretch out on. Crowley’s usual method of ‘waiting’ is caroming around his flat like a roomba bouncing off the furniture and walls (and often, ceiling), but movement is too difficult today. Eventually he slumps over, wakes only enough to pull his legs up, and falls asleep again.

* * *

In a shiny white open-plan workspace with soft white lighting, beings in tasteful white suits move about decorously. Two of them, one even more smartly dressed than the other, have stopped to confer.

ANGEL1: The Project we discussed, has it been completed?

ANGEL2: Yes, it went off without a hitch.

A1: And you’re sure that all proprietary… data has been… processed?

A2: Everything he did as an angel.

A1: Please be aware that if it’s later discovered that this project has overpromised and underdelivered, there _will_ be consequences at the lowest level.

A2: Don’t you mean at the _highest_ level?

A1: No, I do not.

* * *

Crowley wakes up. A night (or was it a day? He’s lost track of time) of almost comfortable sleep has done him good and he's able to process some things.

He looks up at the grey ceiling, looks right through it to grey skies, beyond which lies the greatest unknown of all.

 _Listen here,_ Crowley says under his breath, _You're meant to be the g*d of us, the one and only ruler, the g*d of justice and mercy, right?_

He uses a Name that burns his mouth. He says it anyway.

_Where's the justice in this? Where's the mercy? A person trusts you for millennia, keeps believing in your ineffable goodness, even having seen everything you can do, and this is your idea of reward?_

Crowley forgets where he is, forgets everything but what he saw that night and all the brokenness he tried to repair. He’s too tired to properly shout, but he snarls aloud:

_We're meant to be bnei elokim **[2]**… you just fucking drop your own child on his head?! When humans do that, we call it filicide. Not that it’d be the first time you’ve destroyed your own creations. Seems to me you need a new name: the g*d of dirty tricks, The g*d who sides with the bullies… _

The poisoned Names and the effort of communication are wearing on him. His voice goes lower again: hoarse, not soft. He finishes, exhausted and bitter:

_You shouldn't test a person to destruction. How dare you wipe out the little world we were only just building together?!_

In the ensuing silence comes another similarly broken voice, barely audible: “Crowley?”

[1] You may be wondering why Crowley hasn’t turned into his snake form once in all this time. That’s because (1) he likes having limbs, especially hands. You can do a lot with hands. (2) he likes looking human, and (3) shape-shifting does tend to use up all his energy at once.

[2] In Hebrew, ‘children of g_d’, A phrase that’s sometimes been thought to refer to angelic beings (although modern interpretations differ).


	9. waiting for the miracle to come

The ex-demon leaps up, which is a bad idea. Grasping his back, he hurries into the bedroom, where not-Aziraphale is very much conscious and trying to sit up. Silver-green eyes meet gold ones.

"Crowley!"

"Azi-- aughhh-- you-- you remember me?!"

"Of course, my dear." He coughs painfully and rubs at the area over the ribs Crowley remembers putting back together.

Crowley gets him another pillow, and when he's comfortable again, asks: "What else do you remember?"

"We met at the Fall. I thought we were on different sides, but you knew better. We kept meeting. We had an Arrangement. You're always looking out for me. We misplaced the antichrist and helped him save the world. We put one over on Above and Below. We made Death laugh. I kissed you in St. James Park; we annoyed the ducks. We got drunk and you called me Zirfl. Is that my Yiddish name? I quite like it." 

Crowley stands open-mouthed, not least because it's the first time that Azira-- Zirfl? has ever managed to tell a story concisely. He’s obviously in a hurry to get his ideas out, but fills in emotional details with his face just like he always has, and Crowley gets the sense that he really does remember.

“I don’t know what happened to me that night, but… _thank you, Crowley_.” Zirfl’s eyes well up.

Tears are already running down Crowley's face. He gulps a few times, but doesn’t manage to say anything at all.

“I'm a little tired, my dear. Would you mind awfully if I went back to sleep? You could join me, if you like…”

Crowley makes an incoherent affirmative noise, wipes his eyes and nose on his sleeve and climbs into the bed. He scoots closer and carefully puts an arm around Zirfl, burying his face in the one uninjured shoulder. _My soul is mercifully restored within me…_

They stay like this for a long time.

* * *

Zirfl sleeps a lot, sometimes for days on end, the way Crowley used to a couple of centuries ago, before his back and knees got worse and made him a restless sleeper. Zirfl always wakes up eventually for a brief reassuring conversation with Crowley, but then maddeningly drowses off again. By the time Zirfl is on the mend, Crowley’s going mental with boredom and curiosity. 

The ex-demon has wandered around London seeking what he might devour, usually bringing back a second portion as takeaway in case Zirfl is feeling peckish. He’s gone dancing in clubs where the music can turn off his churning thoughts for a few hours, and come home dazed with yet another migraine to sleep off. He's slept curled up at Zirfl's feet or lounged at his side. Crowley's had driving lessons, but no one was killed. He’s fed the ducks alone, which was… weird. He’s been back to the shop scores of times to fetch books that Zirfl has been too weak to read. He’s read aloud until Zirfl fell asleep and then kept on reading, trying to parse out what everything means. 

Sometimes Crowley has to remind Zirfl where he is, when he wakes up confused and afraid. Other times Zirfl curls protectively around Crowley, who trembles with unspoken questions in the dark hours of the early morning.


	10. i can't forget but i don't remember what

“I think I should try getting up today. Would you help me, my dear?”

“Eunnghh? Ah!” Crowley doesn't much feel like moving yet, but this, this calls for a celebration!

He creaks out of bed, offers Zirfl an arm, and they slowly make their way across the flat.

The table is across from the one window that doesn’t have room-darkening shades on. Even the glariest or the weakest sunshine becomes gentler or more cheerful when filtered through Crowley’s prized plants.

There are enough provisions (cold tapas ingredients, tiramisu, fancy cheeses) in Crowley's magic fridge to throw together a celebratory brunch. He splurges by making some fresh croissants appear; now it's a proper feast.

“Champagne? Or coffee?”

“Both, please!”

The bruises on Zirfl's face have faded, the scrapes have healed; he looks paler than ever. His verdigris eyes, surrounded by deep hollows, move with unaccustomed wariness. Still, he comments on the ingredients and displays his usual decidedly unangelic enthusiasm for food.

Crowley wants to ask a million questions, but he's watching Zirfl. Just walking to the other room has tired him, so Crowley forces himself to wait by tucking into his meal as well.

* * *

They’ve eaten their fill and moved to the sitting room. Crowley drapes his arms along the sofa back and sprawls his feet out into the room.

Zirfl sits a little less primly and less symmetrically than he used to. He flexes his hands. He’s been doing exercises, but his fingers still don’t quite work the way they did.

“I shall have to learn to draw again,” he says, not without sadness. “Just as I was getting used to it…”

“I’m sorry, Zirfl. The last thing you drew that day was _bloody_ brilliant.”

“Litrally so, after They got done with me.”

Crowley barks out a laugh in spite of himself.

“Thank you for… rescuing it, though.”

Crowley knows that _and me_ goes unspoken this time, as it’s been said so many times before. “Did you ever remember what happened? Who…?”

“I remember… a little. Not the face. Some of the aura. I’m fairly sure it wasn’t anyone I… used to know.”

“Really?! I suspected Gabriel. Or that Michael. I mean she’s much too posh to go bunging someone out a window herself, but I’m sure she’s got people for that.”

Zirfl gives him that dreaded blank look. “Which one’s Gabriel, again?”

“Purple eyes, smiles like an American, thinks he’s hot stuff.”

“Right, no, definitely not him.”

“Michael’s the higher up… you know, looks like Bowie, acts like Thatcher.”

“Not her, either.”

“Sandalphon? Egg-shaped, looks like he'd sell you things off the back of a lorry.”

Zirfl shakes his head, looks away.

“Uriel? Now, she seemed frighteningly competent. Short hair, lots of gold-leaf,” Crowley indicates the forehead and cheek area.

“Nobody's ringing any bells. I'm sorry, Crowley, it's just _not there_.” Zirfl's voice shifts higher: defensive, anxious.

“Hey, hey… It’s okay if we don’t figure it out. The main thing is, you’re here now.”

Zirfl leans into Crowley, who slithers an arm around him, gently pulling them together.

* * *

Over the next several days, whenever Zirfl feels up to it, they attempt to go over everything that’s happened.

“When they came for you… What's your theory why it… didn’t work?”

“What you said about Falling. Quite a lot of my memories _have_ been wiped. I’m sure I used to know those angelic coworkers well, and now… They’re a blur.”

“No loss, really,” reassures Crowley, with a grimace. Maybe Zirfl doesn’t even remember how they used to treat him. That’d be nice.

“I’ve got no details left of any of the blessings or miracles I did while I was ‘on the clock’, so to speak, not even the prestigious ones. But I suppose none of us realised just how little I actually did _as an angel_. It seems that everything really _intresting_ is pretty much still in here.” Zirfl taps his head with a little smirk: that good old feeling of getting away with something.

Crowley reckons he can think of a few examples. “All our ‘fraternising’ was done with free will, then!”

“That and all the _Earthly_ things I enjoy. The books, the food, those lovely writers and artists I got to meet, who were gone too soon… somehow, They couldn’t touch any of it.”

* * *

“It’s been bothering me all this time… why _did_ you take that drawing with you?”

“When the shop door burst open, i knew they were coming for me. Didn’t know who, exactly, but… what you’d told me about your Fall was on my mind. This may be frightfully silly, but I took it as a sort of talisman. I was determined they wouldn’t make me forget you.”

“That’s what first let me know something was up… It just didn’t seem right, that the drawing was gone.”

“I wish I could say I planned that, but I’m not really sure I did. I was _very_ drunk at the time.”

“Don't expect _me_ to be the one to say it was ineffable.”

“No, of course not, Crowley. Wouldn't dream of it.”


	11. the works of last year's man

Crowley's off at his driving lessons. There've been some near misses but he still hasn't hit anything important. He's even having a new engine installed in the Bentley and is determined to take them places ‘without cheating.’

Dear long-suffering Crowley… he always had to wait for Aziraphale… and now, even after resigning _and_ falling from the ranks of the heavenly host, Zirfl _still_ hasn't got up to speed. Crowley's truly displayed the patience of a saint, so to speak. Unless that's an insult now. Hard to be quite sure; everything has been changing so quickly these days…

Zirfl may be a bit slow-moving, but he’s able to get around the flat quite confidently now, and no longer needs to sleep all the time. Today he's borrowed a makeup mirror from Crowley’s bathroom and sits at the dining table with paper and pencil. He’s facing down that old dem-- let’s say, nemesis? of every creative person everywhere, _l’horreur de la page blanche_.

The plants rustle gently in the window. Zirfl has heard Crowley hissing at them, but never talked to them himself yet. "Hullo, dears. Just, ah, make a commotion if you need any extra water?"

Zirfl finally puts pencil to paper, with small tentative strokes, trying to approximate his old method. He tries both hands, can’t get either one to achieve the exactness he expects of himself. He erases, tries again. And again. Eventually the paper is too worn out and he screws it up and… Crowley doesn’t have wastepaper baskets. He throws it on the industrial-chic polished cement floor and sets fire to it with a snap of his fingers. _Aahhhh my first legitimately demonic-- ex-demonic? act!_ The paper burns up quickly, leaving a splotch indistinguishable from the rest of the irregularly coloured grey floor.

He thinks the plants tremble a little, but probably it’s just the breeze.

Zirfl grimaces into the mirror. He tries to make a monstrous face, and fails comically. But innumerable monstrous things have been done with a nice face and in the name of Heaven, whether or not he remembers how he felt about them at the time.

 _Who am I? What am I?_ Again, the question of every _human_ artist and writer ever. Hadn’t one of them written, “there is nothing new under the sun?”

He grabs up a different pencil this time, a bright blue one with softer pigment and a less-sharpened point, and tries something new.

* * *

One night they decide to get drunk again. Crowley hesitates because he’s read on the internet that it’s dangerous for people with brain injuries, but Zirfl insists they need it for nostalgia’s sake. And anyway, advice on the internet is for humans.

Another thing Crowley has been afraid to do: argue with Zirfl, though he's been missing their old debates like anything. Zirfl has missed that, too, but fears his mind isn’t up to Crowley’s standards anymore.

“So… what _are_ you, now?”

“'S funny… I used to ask you that.”

“Well, if you’re Fallen…”

“That makes us the same, doesn't it?”

“Does it, though? You've never had to work for Lord Beezzzle Bug.”

“I’ve done simply _loads_ of tempt…tationings on your behalf over the years. And I actually _remember_ those, unlike my own work!”

“Yeah, but… tha’s not the same.”

“It is! I did it for you.”

“Tha’s my point.”

“Oh.”

“You did demonic work to help me out. You did it out of kindness.”

“That's where you’re wrong, Crowley.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I did it so… so you'd do some of my blessings and miracles. It was Sloth. That’s a proper sin, that is.”

“I'm not sure if it counts as sloth when you do the same amount of work.”

“But the travel!”

“True. Oh gods, I don't miss horses one bit!”

“No, nor do I… or camels!”

Crowley shudders in agreement. “Anathing you _do_ miss?”

Zirfl has to stop and think at that. “Having a purpose was… well, I can't say _how_ it was, really. But I think… I must've liked it.”

“Yeah, I think you did. It was alright. For my money, though, we're no _less_ useful now. I mean we did cock up some pretty important stuff.”

“Crowley, can I tell ya a secret?”

“Uunh?”

Zirfl speaks very deliberately, through the warm fog of alcohol: “You are not. Being. As comforting. As you think you are.”

Crowley is just woozily debating with himself if he should panic, until he sees Zirfl's lips beginning to form that old familiar smirk...


	12. reshaping narrow law and art

The first time Zirfl decides he’s ready to leave the safety and comfort of Crowley’s flat, they venture back to St. James Park.

“Are you sure?”

“We can’t hide forever.”

It’s an overcast day. The weather is beginning to turn cooler and it’s a little damp for an outing, but since they were both feeling restless, they reckon it’s worth it. They walk just far enough to sit on one of their favourite benches.

* * *

ANGEL2 is lurking angelically in St. James Park.

He sees the fallen former angel Aziraphale get out of a cab with the former demon Crowley. FFAA appears to be an invalid, barely capable of walking a few steps even with assistance. Whatever FD Crowley’s playing at (can’t be anything good… he’s a demon, after all) is none of Angel2’s concern.

He decides that FFAA has been as good as neutralised. It’s impossible to prove that he hasn’t, after all. And as long as nobody finds out any different, Angel2 won’t be on the receiving end of any of ANGEL1’s infamous Consequences.

* * *

Zirfl has brought along a sketchbook of neutral-coloured, subtly-textured paper. His new style is less exact, looser, bypassing the need for fine motor control. He skips lineart and goes direct to colours.

After Zirfl has been working for some time, Crowley manages to sneak a look. "Whoa!"

Once again Zirfl has drawn him lounging, but this time there's something of Crowley's restless energy in the way the jagged areas of colour interact to delineate his sprawling, never quite comfortable form. There are no areas of true black or white on the page, and no straight lines. Crowley's dark clothes are indicated with overlapping tones, and the lightest areas, like a background cloud, are made to stand out from the greyish paper with pale reflective overlays. Crowley is facing to the viewer's right, but through his dark glasses there's a glimmer of eye contact. His auburn hair is backlit, all golden highlights and purple shadows. Crowley's eyebrows push his forehead up into wrinkles of thought, and his bottom lip sticks out, caught in the instant before saying something clever.

* * *

Crowley goes to get them ices and Zirfl watches him make his way along the path. _Good lord. After all we’ve been through, he’s still ‘the coolest,’ isn’t he?! I’ve been so astoundingly fortunate._

A small group of young adults are also watching Crowley, who is concentrating and doesn’t notice them. One of them begins to mimic his way of walking, while the others laugh.

Zirfl concentrates on the biggest and toughest of the geese in the lake, and then plants… it can hardly be called an idea, can it? perhaps just a direction? in the small goose-mind.

Soon the youths are careering across the park, pursued by instant karma complete with demented honking and the ominous _plaf plaf plaf plaf_ of several pairs of large webbed feet.

Crowley returns, letting out a sharp breath as he sits down.

Zirfl finishes his ice-cream quickly, then miracles the damp wooden bench into a contoured one of heated stone, and falls asleep on Crowley’s shoulder while Crowley enjoys the pain-relieving warmth.

* * *

Another day it’s pouring down rain, and they’re both having a lie-in under a massive plush duvet. Crowley’s finally let Zirfl tempt him to try cocoa. It’s not sickeningly sweet like he thought it would be, and somehow warms your insides more than coffee. He takes another sip, running the heavy chocolate flavour around in his mouth before swallowing.

“Are you _sure_ you really Fell, though?”

“How do _you_ propose that I ended up at the bottom of a giant tree, with a dent in my head?”

“You know what I mean. Like, _official_ Falling.”

“It really seems unlikely that simple brain trauma could wipe _exactly_ the angelic memories, and no others.”

“But you seem pretty much the same, except for injury… stuff.”

“I’m not sure if you can answer this… It might be part of what _you_ lost… And it’s been simply _ages_. But… do you remember what _you_ were like, _before_? Did _you_ change much?”

“Nrrmf,” Crowley stalls. He hasn’t tried to think about that lately, but he was, of course, an angel for even longer than he was a demon. “I think… I actually must’ve taken my work pretty seriously. But there wasn’t much else to _do_ back then, was there?!”

“Where _would_ we be without humans?”

“Bored and sad, that’s where. And sober.” Crowley miracles a shot of whiskey into each of their mugs.

“Perhaps I was just _always_ useless at being an angel?” Zirfl takes a drink. “Ooh, this is scrummy.”

“Oh, I think you were at least as good an angel as you are a bookseller…”

“That’s very kind--” but then the penny drops. “You absolute _bastard_!”

Crowley just grins.


	13. feel so close to everything we lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for posting out of order!!  
> thought about including this part earlier, and kept changing my mind. but then i decided it needed to happen, after all. so here it is.  
> will probably have to make slight edits in the roadtrip chapters because of it, but nothing extremely plot-altering.

There’s something that’s been bothering Crowley, prickling at the back of his mind, and it’s not that he can’t figure it out… because he could, if he let himself. It’s more like he’s afraid to know. In all this time, even Crowley couldn’t fail to notice that Zirfl hasn’t wanted to go back to the bookshop. Nor has he seen Zirfl read any of the books that Crowley fetched for him. Because confirming the awful thing might make it real, Crowley just buries it, and even sort of halfway forgets.

When Zirfl was first recovering, Crowley got quite adept at reading aloud, something he never used to do. But he just assumed that when Zirfl was well, things would go back to normal and Zirfl would always be found with his nose in a book again. That didn’t happen, so Crowley carried on reading to him in the evenings.

And Zirfl listens, eyes closed, face blissful at the luxury of being serenaded with novels or philosophy, at times reacting to the emotional content of the text. These days he never dozes off early.

So Crowley reads aloud until _he’s_ tired, and then they sleep.

That is, until one afternoon when Crowley comes back from his driving lesson. As luck would have it, his joints are all out of sorts by the time he gets home, and Zirfl sends him straight to bed.

By this time Zirfl has regained most of his strength. He offers an arm and Crowley leans heavily on him as they make their way down the corridor.

“Thanks, I think I’m okay from here,” Crowley says as they get to the bedroom. Zirfl probably isn’t ready to sleep this soon…

But Zirfl stays in the doorway, worried eyes following Crowley around the room.

Crowley walks gingerly, calculating the effects of his movements. He retrieves one of the oversized jumpers and stretchy leggings that he prefers to use at home, changes into them, and carefully climbs into bed. He’s nowhere near incapacitated, but getting home and comfortable has tired him, and as a sudden impulse, he feels like being doted on a little.

“I don’t suppose I could tempt _you_ to read to _me_ for a change?” Crowley does the best seductive eyebrow-tilting smile he can muster.

It’s as if all the air goes out of Zirfl; his shoulders slump and he looks at the floor.

Crowley knows (even ex-)demons shouldn’t be able to feel guilt, but since when has he followed those rules? “Look, I’m sorry I can’t tonight, I’m just not really… functional. But you don’t have to. It was just a selfish little idea I had. Old habits, you know…”

“Oh no, my dear, it’s not that. There’s… there’s something I haven’t told you.”

“What’s wrong? You can tell me. It’ll be okay.” Crowley tries to keep his voice soft and calm, but he feels weeks of tiny nagging doubts solidifying into a hard, cold reality in the pit of his stomach. Zirfl _has_ lost something important. If only… No, he’s got to concentrate on now.

With a very small voice, Zirfl confirms the worst. “I can’t read. Since the-- since they-- since That Night.”

“Not at all?!”

“Well, I mean, it’s not that I can’t make out words. It’s just the, erm-- it’s just--” Zirfl’s clasping and unclasping his hands desperately in front of his chest. “Books made me feel alive. Not just acquiring them, not just collecting them, but, the-- the conversations. When you read, you know, it’s a dialogue between the reader and the author.”

Zirfl looks up at Crowley, probably expecting mockery, because he’s suddenly gone all Professor Fell. But Crowley couldn’t feel less like laughing if he tried, so he just nods.

“The written word is more than it seems. You might discover something ancient, something so new the writer didn’t notice it… anything, really. Sometimes you… discover yourself. I can’t lose that. I’d rather…” his face crumples and his eyes fill with tears.

“Wait, no, don’t cry. Come sit with me.” Crowley pats the bed next to him.

Zirfl sits down heavily, facing away from Crowley, and weeps silently into his hands.

Reaching hurts, but Crowley puts a hand on Zirfl’s shoulder, only to feel him shaking harder. “C’mon, Tell me. We’ll think of something. I _promise_.”

Zirfl pulls his feet up into the bed, letting his slippers fall to the floor. He turns red tearstained eyes towards Crowley.

Pulling Zirfl closer wrenches Crowley’s spine, but it’s worth it.

Zirfl lets out a heartbreaking wail and dives into Crowley’s arms. He sobs, loudly, for what seems ages. Okay, so maybe this was a bad idea. But at least Crowley didn’t come home with a migraine, or he’d be discorporating right now.

He holds Zirfl tight, rubbing his back, whispering repeated reassurances that he hopes are true. “We’ll figure something out. _B’ezrat Hashem_ ” (he says by reflex, even though he suspects She wants them to help themselves) “we’ll get this sorted.”

How long had Aziraphale adored books? As long as books existed, so at least several millennia. To lose something like that… well, it’s almost worse than some of Crowley’s original fears about Aziraphale falling. If he’d forgotten everything in his books, he could just re-read his entire collection. But now Zirfl might be unable to follow his own whims, to run to look something up at 2AM, he might be at the mercy of ebooks and audiobooks, which wouldn’t even exist for most of A.Z. Fell’s rare volumes… He wouldn’t recognise his own life anymore.

No, it wouldn’t be the end of the world (most things, in Crowley’s experience, aren’t), but Zirfl must be suddenly letting himself _grieve_ losing his independence in something as basic to his earthly existence as reading. No wonder he’s crying himself hoarse.

Crowley feels the ache of this worry stronger than the physical ache in his own back. And there’s no way he’ll be able to read everything to Zirfl all the time. If he’s really invested in the story or the ideas, Crowley can read aloud for maybe a couple of hours, but not all day long. His mind just isn’t wired like that. He’s gotta move, change it up, he’s gotta _do_ things. He’s gotta have his own activities, or he’ll go spare.

Eventually, Zirfl’s lament subsides into quiet sniffling, and he takes a deep, gasping breath. He murmurs into Crowley’s shoulder, “I thought, if-- if I didn’t tell you, it wouldn’t be real.”

“Hah! That’s the same reason why I didn’t ask.” Crowley starts to laugh, but exhaustion cracks his voice. He clears his throat. “Aren’t we a ridiculous pair?”

“I keep trying… hoping this time will be different. Whenever you’re away.” Zirfl whispers. “I open a book, I sit down to read…” He coughs a few times before continuing. “I see the words. I understand the words. But I get distracted before I’ve finished even a paragraph. Then I can’t remember what I’ve read and I’ve got to start all over again.”

 _Welcome to my brain,_ thinks Crowley, and just barely refrains from saying it.

Zirfl must be so relieved to talk about this that he just wants to get it all out no matter how exhausted they both are. Probably for the best. “Other times, it’s slow going because everything’s gone completely blurry. If I try to read then, I get terrible headaches. Well, not as bad as yours…”

“How d’you know mine are worse? Maybe they’re both the same,” Crowley grumbles into Zirfl’s hair. “Anyway, pain’s not a contest.”

Zirfl doesn’t answer. His body loses its tension and he slumps on top of Crowley, as his grip on Crowley’s shoulder loosens: he’s gone to sleep.

Crowley gets his smartphone off the bedside table, and taps in search after search until he falls asleep as well.


	14. a manual for living with defeat

Early in the morning, Crowley pulls the duvet back over Zirfl (now curled up like a fluffy silvery cat in the middle of the bed), and sneaks out to the bookshop… and a few other shops as well.

Zirfl comes into the dining room some hours later, looking as pale and fragile as in the early days after his injuries. Even after much application of cool water, his eyelids are swollen from crying, and he isn’t sure if his voice will work.

Crowley looks at him the same way he has for thousands of years: with so much tenderness that they both might burst. He draws Zirfl into a quick hug and plants a kiss on his forehead.

A curious array of items is displayed on the table, but Crowley waves away any questions or protests until after breakfast.

He’s brought fruit pastries and miracled some extra-strong tea. They eat with more enjoyment than conversation. Zirfl’s appetite is surprisingly good and even Crowley feels a little hungry; they must need the extra energy after last night.

Finally Crowley stands and begins his presentation. “I’ve been doing some research. Here we have a selection of tools and tricks that the humans use when they have trouble reading after a brain injury.” He indicates the items on the table with a sweeping gesture.

“Oh, Crowley…”

“The first thing I’m going to show you, _I’ve always_ had to do. Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I can be sort of easily distracted.”

This at least gets a smile from Zirfl, though not quite a laugh.

“So this one is pretty simple. You can use a post-it,” he holds up a sheaf of them in different colours, “to keep track of where you are on the page. I tend to just use these.” Crowley grins and brandishes his two thumbs (complete with dark-metallic-polished nails like the rest of his fingers), coincidentally making a double gesture of approval.

This gets another indulgent smile from his audience of one.

“Many people find that extra magnification makes the letters clearer.” Crowley holds up two magnifying sheets, one big enough to cover a whole page of a large book, and one more pocket-sized, that could also probably be used to remind the reader what paragraph they were on.

There's also a standing magnifier: a large rectangular frame with supports to hold it at your chosen angle over a book. Crowley demonstrates the optional LED reading light. The whole contraption looks very sturdy, and (as Crowley managed to find one with a dark-stained wood frame that won’t look out of place in the bookshop) expensive.

Zirfl seems to have cheered up a bit from these ideas, but there’s still some doubt in his voice, as he gestures at the last item. “Aren’t those my old specs? I thought a bookshop proprietor should wear those, but they’re just clear glass. They don’t work.”

“They don’t work _yet_ ,” says Crowley.

“I can’t miracle my eyes and my brain better. I’ve tried and tried.” Zirfl starts to choke up again.

“And _I_ tried, while you slept. But I’m assuming that because of how They… hurt you… Yeah, there’s probably… bureaucratic reasons why it’s impossible to fix.”

“So, then…?”

“Well, noone says _I_ can’t miracle your reading specs.”

“Oh, aren’t you clever!”

“Tell me that again later, if it works.”

Zirfl sits on the sofa, dons his glasses and holds one of his books at a comfortable distance.

Crowley pulls up a chair and sits backwards in it, arms wrapped around the chair-back. Facing Zirfl, he concentrates on the lenses. “Tell me when it gets clear.”

The metal frames get hot before the lenses find the right curvature, but that’s okay because Crowley takes a break from miracling while the frames cool off, and they chat a little while Zirfl rests his eyes.

“If you start to get any pain, let me know and we’ll stop,” Crowley, draped over his end of the sofa, lightly touches the area of Zirfl’s head where his own migraines usually strike.

“Not yet, but thank you, dear.”

Many more attempts later, Zirfl is starting to lose hope and Crowley is getting frustrated and very close to miracled-out. They lose count of how many tries it takes to finally achieve a decent ‘prescription’ that will let Zirfl mostly focus.

Crowley is ready to collapse into bed, and heading in that direction, but there comes Zirfl fairly running after him down the corridor, still carrying his book with a magnifier sheet to mark the page. Now what?

“My clever one!” Zirfl pants, adjusting his glasses. “I can read you to sleep, now.”

“Oh, yes!” says Crowley, “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's it for this part, so now hopefully we're back to chronological posting.


	15. you want to live where the suffering is, i want to get out of town

Some days later, Crowley comes home proudly brandishing a square of white magnetic vinyl with a bold green letter P on it. Crowley, Anthony J. (purportedly a Mister, nearly fifty years of age, residing in London) is now in possession of a completely legitimate UK driving licence. Practicing to pass the test has taken him approximately twice as long as Zirfl’s recovery. It might have taken even longer if he hadn’t had the clever idea to take the test outside the City and with a small, easy to manoeuvre car.

“Mazel tov?” says Zirfl uncertainly, and Crowley beams. Zirfl gestures at the probationary driver plate. “Are you going to put that on the Bentley?”

“I might do, just to disturb classic motor enthusiasts!”

“This calls for a toast!”

“Eurm… Maybe after we get back?”

“From where?”

“Well, I’m _trying_ to invite you for a drive.”

“Ooh, yes, lets! Where are we going?”

“I donno. Out of town.”

“I’ll get dressed.” Aziraphale’s old favourite outfit is preserved somewhere in Crowley’s closet, but Zirfl can still see the spectre of his own blood on it, despite both their best efforts at miracling it away. These days he favours a light grey frock coat with pastel shirts… perhaps an infinitesimal change, but for him it’s fraught with significance.

They take the elevator down many storeys to the carpark of Crowley’s building. Crowley must have paid extra to have the mechanic fill the tank as well, because the Bentley actually starts by turning the key in the ignition. Everything goes just fine until they get out of the carpark.

For navigating London traffic, the CD player appropriately offers _Under Pressure_.

Crowley _imagining_ he was driving was generally good fun for him, if not a recommended experience for any passenger who valued their own sanity. Crowley _actually_ driving? engenders more worries about Crowley’s sanity than anything else. He grips the wheel with literal white knuckles, has the reflexes you would expect of a being several millennia old with only a few weeks of practice, and is the worst combination of too cautious and too impulsive, by turns.

His mind is pounding and he’s sweating like mad. All Crowley can think of is that the only thing stopping this massive car from running down loads of innocents is one very anxious being who has no business behind a wheel. They get about three blocks before he has to pull over.

“Aaugghh!”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Can you _drive_?!” Crowley snaps.

“You know I can’t,” murmurs Zirfl.

“Then no.”

“Oh, Crowley…” Zirfl puts a hand on his shoulder.

Crowley recoils. “Why are you being so _nice_?!”

“Force of habit? If there were any demonic tricks that would help, I assume you’d be doing them already.”

“Bollocks! If we didn’t have to sleep off every miracle, I could just drive like I used to. I’m so _tired_ of having to do everything the _hard way_ now!”

“And I’ve been a large part of that burden. But I’m nearly well now. I can look after myself…”

Crowley slams his head into the steering wheel--

_AHOOOOGAH!!_

Passersby jump out of their skin, but so do Crowley and Zirfl.

Crowley’s dark glasses are askew and the rest of his face is threatening to turn as red as the horn-button-sized circle on his forehead.

“It’s not you,” he says through gritted teeth.

Zirfl’s eyes go wide and he raises an index finger. “I’ve an idea. But you’ve got to promise to play along.”

“It can’t be worse than this.”

From the perspective of the Soho pedestrians, the Bentley vanishes, along with its occupants.

From Crowley’s perspective, Soho vanishes, and is replaced with a country lane, empty of traffic.

From Zirfl’s perspective, this is a lovely time for a nap, in fact a good snooze is absolutely imperative.

* * *

When Zirfl comes to, the sun is hours later in the sky, and Crowley is driving calmly along a very similar rural road. The windows are rolled down and the wind tugs at their hair.

“Hullo, dear,” says Zirfl as if nothing has happened.

“Look, I don’t want you to think--”

“I’m beginning to understand how hard it is for you now. Unlimited access to miracles let you do a lot of things you enjoy, despite all the pain you’re in.”

Crowley gulps, and nods.

“I wouldn’t have understood if it hadn’t been for--”

“I never wanted you to know. Nobody should have to know what that’s like!”

“True, but--”

“If you mention that _fucking_ plan--”

“I’m not even sure-- Oh, I don’t know, Crowley. I think _that’s_ why I Fell.”

“Wot?! What d’you mean?”

“It’s just that… Since… our whole not-the-end-of-the-world… lark, I’ve been having a lot of doubts about… The plan… about… the Almighty Herself… about _everything_ , really. Well, except--”

“Except?”

Zirfl says something very quietly.

“What was that?”

“Except _you_.”

“Unh?”

“You’ve never, actually, let me down. You’ve never really definitively lost patience with me.”

“Oh.” Crowley stares ahead, eyes carefully on the road. “Really?” No sarcasm, just an exhausted incredulity.

“Really, truly.”

“I will. If I haven’t, I will.”

“And we shall get through that. It’s the one thing in the wor-- in the _universe_ that I’m sure of.”

“How can you be so sure? Do you just… _like_ believing things? Is that _fun_ for you?!”

“We’ve survived all the times _I_ let _you_ down. We’ve litrally gone through Heaven and Hell for each other...”

Crowley can't help looking a little less glum. “I s’pose we have.”


	16. in city and in forest they smiled like me and you

England isn’t like some places. If you start a little outside of London and drive in a straight line for several hours, you end up in the sea (or possibly in Scotland, which is only a little more damp). 

Fortunately, Crowley isn’t driving in a straight line. He’s just taking whatever turning he fancies, reasoning that he can always look up a map later when they stop for a break. Driving without much traffic feels good in a different way than his previous daredevil method. It’s not exciting, but maybe he’s had his fill of exciting over the last month. He wouldn’t go as far as calling this relaxing, but he’s starting to get his confidence back after the panic in London. He wonders, though, if he’ll ever be able to drive in the City. Oh well, there’s always cabs… and buses, and trains, and as a last resort, the tube. 

While Crowley continues driving in silence, Zirfl has almost dozed off again but wakes as the Bentley pulls into a petrol station. 

Once Crowley’s got out of the car and shaken some of the knots out of his spine, he has to figure out how the pumps work, which is not quite the same as they did in the 70s. Then he grabs his phone and checks some ratings and maps online. “How about dinner at an Inn?” 

“Splendid!” Zirfl’s being awfully agreeable, even for him. 

Crowley hopes he isn’t doing it out of… pity or something. Because the one time Crowley tries to achieve something on his own without miracles, he’s failed miserably. Still, it worked out alright, didn’t it? He tries to put the other thoughts out of his mind. 

* * *

The food is excellent, even without any miraculous tweeks. Traditional local ingredients, but with continental techniques… Zirfl looks to be enjoying himself every bit as much as at the Ritz. 

Crowley’s still curious, though. “These days you seem much more relaxed--” 

“Yes, I feel calmer than I have in… ages.” Zirfl sighs. 

“Why? I mean that’s nice,” there’s a definite twinge of jealousy in Crowley’s voice, “but how did that happen?” 

“I think… Falling has agreed with me.” Zirfl looks almost surprised, himself. 

“That can’t be right. I mean. Obviously I’m glad you’re not suffering, but… It’s meant to be terrible.” 

“Didn’t _you_ feel more… free? Afterwards?” Zirfl’s voice lilts upwards, hopeful. 

But Crowley’s gotta be realistic. “No… Maybe? Well, I don’t know. You Must Do Evil isn’t _that_ much different from You Must Do Good, as you’re noticed. And plus, I lost most of before.” 

“That’s right, you were a terribly serious angel.” 

“From the way you used to talk, I thought you were, too.” 

“So did I, but the moment I tried not being that, I found it suited me.” 

Crowley tries to trace the timeline: “You seemed… different even before they marked you Fallen, though.” He holds up fingers: “First Armaged...didn’t. Then we… got away, let’s call it that, and then there was that meeting with Death…” 

“Yes, I think it was Death. Knowing we still have time…” Zirfl looks at Crowley and his face says so much more. 

The way Crowley looks back at him, you’d think he’s completely given up on trying to play it cool. 

* * *

They stay overnight at the hotel. Of course they share a bed, as they have done since that day at the bookshop. This next bit may be anticlimactic to many humans: There are physical functions of earth-issue bodies that angelic beings can mimic if the occasion presents itself, but there’s no need when it’s just them. Their selves enmesh in ways unfathomable to us. They’re accustomed to each other’s humanoid bodies by now, so that part’s comfortable in the best way, like broken-in shoes that seem like an extension of your feet, or a shirt that’s been washed so often it’s become as soft as skin. On this plane, they hold each other tight with the standard four limbs each. But somewhere in those big gaps between electrons, their interwoven essence, neither a particle nor a wave, dances free. And that part, well, it’s ineffable, isn’t it? 

And afterwards, when the aethereal rejoins the corporeal, they’ll need to sleep it off… just like with any other big miracle. 


	17. the stars eat your body and the wind makes you cold

Despite the overwhelmingly pleasant ending to the previous day, hours of driving and an unfamiliar bed have played havoc with Crowley's back and legs, and he wakes up much too early and very sore. Does he forget to say the _modeh ani_ , or does he just not manage to feel grateful to be alive today?

Crowley tries not to wake Zirfl, but falls while trying to get out of bed. From old habit, he swears in reverse, including a few high-level holy words. Now his mouth hurts as well: there goes any enjoyment of breakfast, if he can even manage to get there…

“Crowley.”

“What.”

Zirfl hesitates at Crowley’s sharpness, then, “I only wanted to help…”

“You can’t.”

“Not if you won’t let me.”

“There’s nothing to let you _do_.”

“I could try.”

“If miracles worked on this, I could fix it myself.”

“That’s not--”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Hmph.”

Crowley sits with his back to Zirfl, feeling offended eyes on his spine the whole time, as if his poor errant vertebrae needed any more _tsuris_. He massages his legs until they grudgingly consent to carry him, and stumbles downstairs, leaning heavily on the banisters.

By the time they start serving breakfast, Crowley is still in a foul mood. He sits alone and orders only a glass of milk, which should help the burning but doesn’t.

Zirfl joins him, although they don’t acknowledge each other, and orders an old-fashioned fry-up.

When Zirfl’s food arrives, although it smells much more of meats and egg than of grease, still it’s all Crowley can do not to vomit right there at the table. Pain’ll do that, some days. He gets up suddenly and limps as fast as he can to the door. The nausea fades when he gets into the fresh air. Crowley sits down on a bench so he can look in the window, concentrate on the cashier’s counter, and miracle their bill paid. Zirfl won’t remember, and it’s not the inn workers’ fault if these two beings can’t seem to get on the same page today.

The morning is windy and much cooler than the previous day, and the outdoor bench in the shadow of the historic stone building isn’t very welcoming. Neither is the inevitable prospect of quarreling with Zirfl, or of driving back to London. Crowley rests his head in his hands and, alone inside his own mind, allows himself to be miserable. Ever since Zirfl regained consciousness and was still himself, Crowley has tried to be cheerful and optimistic, excepting the odd late night panic attack. After all, they’ve got each other back, Zirfl didn’t lose nearly as much as they'd both feared in his Fall and has mostly recovered from his injuries… really Crowley shouldn’t complain. But right now, existence is painful and he’s going to have a little private _kvetch_. Right now, he can feel each individual disc between the vertebrae. Each hurts a different amount, most aching and a few stabbing, but they all add up. There are the right number of parts for an Earth-issue man-shaped body, but someone must have reasoned _eh snake-human-whatever… it’s all earth stuff, right? How complex could it be?_ Turns out, it actually matters how things are attached, but he didn’t find that out until much later. Crowley writhes his neck, then his back, leans to each side, then slumps forward again… crunchy noises happen, but nothing helps.

From time to time, the door opens: people leaving the inn, going out for the day. Crowley doesn’t raise his head.

Of course the last one is Zirfl. He sits down at the other end of the bench. “I was going to share that with you, you know. You looked as if you could use a bit of protein.”

“Euugh. Nauseous.”

“I’m sorry. You could’ve said.”

“No. I really couldn’t.”

“You’re in no state to drive back to the City.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley lies. In spite of his best efforts, he’s starting to shiver. If only they weren’t fighting, he could scoot over and borrow Zirfl’s warmth.

“Look, I’ve been thinking--”

“Dangerous hobby, that.”

“What if you… left the car somewhere.”

“Wot?! What d'you mean?!”

“Well… first tell me this. Are we… are you… I mean, are we still…??”

“Nngh?”

“D’you _hate_ me, Crowley?”

Well, at least this isn’t the row he’s been expecting. “‘Course not. Just… bad day. Hate my spine, mostly.”

Zirfl winces. “Are you warm enough out here?”

Crowley shakes his head. In fact the cold is creeping into his bones, making everything worse.

Zirfl cranes his neck to look in the window. “The breakfast crowd has gone. We _could_ go back in and sit by the fire.”

There’s no hurry, after all. Crowley lets him lead the way to a sofa near the hearth. The staff have already cleared away all the dishes, and the room is basically deserted.

Leaning on Zirfl and with his legs stretched out towards warmth, Crowley can already feel some improvement. The angel (still gonna take a while to stop thinking of him as that) is like a heating pad against Crowley’s back.

Good thing Zirfl didn’t go cold-blooded when he fell. Crowley tries to remember… he’s pretty sure he was a snake-angel, before his own Fall. 'Course he’d had little limbs then, even in snake form. Back before Adam and Eve’s Fall, when snakes didn’t have such a bad rep… Which honestly Crowley still thinks is unfair… to him, _and_ to snakes in general (not to forget the unfairness to _Chava v Adom_ ). After all, who wouldn’t want to know all there was to know?! Really, he was doing humanity a favour. Speaking of curiosity, though… Crowley’s just got distracted in the middle of a conversation, hasn’t he? Zirfl was about to tell him some mad plan about getting rid of the Bentley. Maybe that’ll take his mind off everything else. “So, what’s this idea of yours?”

“Right…” Zirfl’s clasping his hands together over and over, like he does whenever he’s having a hard time getting an idea out. “You could-- we could… rent a garage in a small town somewhere… Not necessarily here… Just somewhere that’s a nice place to go for a drive. Maybe we could even rent a little _cottage_. It might be good to get away from the City sometimes.”

Not such a mad plan after all. Crowley thinks about Zirfl’s anxiety, well both of theirs, if he’s being honest… and the migraines… “Someplace _quiet_?”

“Yes. I’ve actually been thinking about it since… since Tadfield.”

“Really?! You never said.”

Zirfl looks away, embarrassed. “I thought it’d be too boring for you… too _slow_.”

“Hm.” Crowley considers. “I suppose we’d… find enough things to do.” He wants to put some innuendo into the phrase, but hasn’t the energy for it.

“You could have more plants. Even a garden if you like.”

“You could draw.”

“And we wouldn’t have to go there all the time. Just when we want to.”

There’s no excuse to be stubborn about it, really. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

“Oh, Crowley!” Zirfl beams down at him.

“Don’t get too excited. Be a bit of a pain in the arse, finding a place we really like,” and he immediately regrets it, because Zirfl’s excited face is one of the joys of life.

“That’s okay, I… I’ve maybe already got that sorted.”

“You wot! You sneaky dev-- Erm… whatever we are.”

“Sneaky _person_ , doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, though, does it, dear?”

“Tell ya what, you should’ve let me keep calling you Angel.”

Zirfl looks down his nose, through imaginary pince-nez. “I shall allow it, on one condition.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You may only call me Angel _ironically_.”

Crowley laughs in surprise, because Zirfl _still_ isn’t online. “Where did you learn that?!”

Another of the joys of life is Zirfl’s happy little smirk.


	18. come healing of the body, come healing of the mind

Crowley finds himself slumping down and forward, until he’s lying with his chest on Zirfl’s lap and his head on the upholstered arm of the settee. He can’t really see from this angle, but he can tell from the brushing of elbows against his side that Zirfl must be doing that ‘raptor arms’ gesture that seems to mean he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Hey. _Angel_.” Sarcastic is close enough to ironic, right?

“Hmm?”

“Maybe I was wrong this morning…”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, go for it.”

Zirfl ‘lays hands on’ him, almost ceremonially, the way _Aziraphale_ used to do for your more official sort of miracle. Does he remember that, now? His muscle memory definitely does.

And Crowley remembers. He can tell because of how slowly the space between them decreases, because of how the electricity of their cells finally, when they’re close enough, arcs between their corporeal forms. This isn’t miracles, though. This is just being alive in a body (well, two bodies), if you look close enough. Of course, there are some that say that being alive in a body is a miracle, too.

Zirfl doesn’t use his ethereal energy, they both know that won’t work on this, anyway. He just uses his body-heat… and those gentle bookish hands, so much stronger than they look. He runs his palms along Crowley’s spine, over subluxations and other misalignments, warming up the worst areas. He uses the heels of his hands to relax the muscles, which with a little luck could let the joints realign and stay that way for a while.

Crowley might as well be melting into the sofa. This is definitely the most relaxed he’s felt in a long time… could almost fall asleep. Normally he either plummets into unconsciousness, or he’s so brainfogged from pain that in the moments or hours before sleep he doesn’t remember to _daven_. But this time, in the peaceful quiet of this warm room, lit only by the hearth, held within Zirfl’s care… It occurs to Crowley that he might say the customary prayer before sleeping. _Shema yisroel, (hashem) elo(k)einu (hashem) echad…_ Of course he can’t say it properly without shocking himself fully awake, but still… it feels right to try.

* * *

When Zirfl finally has to rouse him because people are beginning to arrive for lunch, Crowley has napped for a good couple of hours.

He gets up carefully, curling inwards before trying to unfold himself, and manages to stand with less pain. “Thanks…” he hesitates, because an ironic ‘angel’ doesn't seem quite right, “… _thanks, love_." Good enough to be going on with.

Zirfl goes all pink and happy as he puts a protective arm around Crowley's waist. Yeah, that’ll do.

They decide to have a last meal at the Inn, and then perhaps see the place Zirfl has tentatively picked out.

There’s fresh-baked bread along with their orders, and Crowley murmels a hurried _hamotzi_ before cutting into the loaf. He again deliberately mispronounces the Names so that they won’t burn him, but the _kavanah_ , the intention, is there.

They’re _both_ refraining from alcohol before Crowley has to drive.

Zirfl’s probably saving his miracle ration in case anything goes wrong, like the other day. But he gets that same look in his eyes as when they’ve both had a few. He lowers his voice and leans conspiratorially towards Crowley: “Confession time!”

“Go on then, you first.”

“I’ve been consorting with a witch.”

“Anyone I know?”

“As it happens, yes. Anathema Device.”

“Book girl?! Huh.” She seemed likable enough, but Crowley isn’t going to admit that.

“Yes. Agnes Nutter’s progeny.”

“And what have you been ‘consorting’ about?”

“The cottage, of course!”

“Aghk!”

“Is that bad? Would it be such an awful idea to go back to Tadfield?”

“Ennh.” Crowley slumps further in his seat.

“What’s wrong, my dear?”

Crowley grimaces and makes a crumpling gesture with his hands. “People _know_ us there.”

“That’s exactly why I thought it’d be nice. There’s six people in Tadfield who understand at least some of what happened a couple of months ago. You won’t find that in London.”

“Four of them are eleven-year-olds.”

“They’re still _people_ , Crowley!”

“Of course they’re people.”

“And they’ve been _frightfully brave_!”

“All the more reason not to turn up and remind them of what happened. They need to go back to what’s left of a nice childhood and forget that they ever had to stop the apocalypse.”

“Do you think that’s possible?”

“The human mind, oof. They can do loads of things that oughta be impossible.”

“Well, we won’t seek out the children. But Anathema and Newt seem like very pleasant people.”

“Eehnnh.” Although it’s just the two of them here, Crowley has the feeling he’s been outnumbered.


	19. i told you when i came i was a stranger

It’s not until dessert that Zirfl reminds him: “Your turn, my dear.”

“Ah, erm… Yeah.” Crowley clears his throat. He’s sat there not even tasting anything, just grasping his cutlery like defensive weapons, one in each fist.

Zirfl puts a warm hand on Crowley’s, feels an unbearable frigid tension. He gently dislodges the unused knife, unclenches fingers one by one to mesh them with his own. When he finds no conscious resistance, he does the same with Crowley’s fork hand.

Now they’re linked, Zirfl’s warmth softens Crowley’s nerves and sends a shudder from his hands all the way back to his shoulders, loosening something there as well.

“It’s okay. Tell me?”

“You won’t think…? The thing is… You said you’re doubting everything. But this is different,” says Crowley, emphatically, making about as much sense as usual when flustered.

“My dear, I don’t see what that has to do--”

“I’ve been thinking about going back to services.”

“You mean…?”

“ _Shul_. Synagogue.”

“Oh!” Zirfl tries for cheerful, but mostly looks puzzled.

“Yeah. Haven’t really been since… just after the War.” There’s really no need to say which.

“Why… why did you think this could upset me?”

“Well, you seem so _content_ after Falling! So free! Which is great, don’t get me wrong. But here I am, trying to get closer to a g_d I can’t even say the name of.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting… closeness. Connection.”

“And it’s not just g_d. Erm. I mean She’s never exactly _replied_. Not the sort of messages your _mystics_ get.”

“It’s not like She talks to me, either.”

“True. But… mostly, it’s people.”

“Hmm?”

“Judaism. It’s not just about g_d. Religion, you think it’s about gods an’ that. Well, sometimes that’s not necessary, is it. Sometimes it’s about… Remembering. Together. Sometimes it’s about telling a story in a particular order. Eating cardboard biscuits for a week. Lighting candles. Covering your head. Crying in a language you feel, but don’t really speak. Covering your face with your hand. Praying like a metronome. Getting so drunk you can’t tell Haman from Mordechai.”

“Oh, Crowley,” says Zirfl, softly.

“What? You think it’s weird, don’t you? You think I’m silly.”

“My dear, how could I?”

“To want to remember all these things with humans, when we were there. We met at _Gan Eden_ , even though we keep trolling them about how long ago it was. We saw the flood, which I still haven’t forgiven Her for. We’ve seen… too much. It must seem ludicrous to you, that I want to be part of a human community, that I want to celebrate their survival against all odds, even though they’ll never understand what I am, even though I should have found more ways to protect them, even though I’ll have to pretend I won’t outlive everyone I meet.”

“Ohhhh. I could never think that. Don’t you know? Don’t you know why I live in Soho? Why I’ve always sought out… a certain… sort of people? Why I choose, not to put too fine a point on it, to be rather obviously gay?”

“Erm…?”

“All those beautiful men, and I don’t mean… although there have been…”

Now it’s Crowley’s turn to say, “I know. And it’s okay.”

“What I mean to say is, and not only the men, mind you, all sorts. The most exquisite minds, the most creative, the kindest… the most conforming to the image of the Almighty…”

“Everyone is _b’zelem Elokim_ ,” says Crowley under his breath. Not sniping, just… remembering.

“Yes, but what I’m getting at is… I've encountered some of the absolute best of humanity in the Queer communities. People I could understand, although they might not fathom that immortals walk among them. Although I’ve had to watch their terror in times of persecution, although I was only allowed to interfere so much…”

“Oh,” says Crowley. His glasses have slipped down his nose and Zirfl sees golden eyes wide with recognition.

“Yes,” says Zirfl.

“Well then.”

“Could I-- would you like it if… if I came with you?”

“D’you mean it?” Hopeful surprises… Crowley could get used to this.

Zirfl unlaces their fingers and cups Crowley’s hands between his. “ _Whither thou goest, I will go_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there may be a small delay before more updates, due to new semester at work 
> 
> ...and also needing to figure out how to write newt and anathema.
> 
> *however* i absolutely do intend to continue this fic.


	20. tell me again (when the angels are panting and scratching at the door to come in)

Crowley brings the Bentley to a stop at the end of the gravel drive. There’s no carriage-house or garage, so he parks near a battered blue three-wheeled… vehicle… of some sort? that doesn't really seem Anathema’s style. Still, you never know with cyclists, he supposes. Or Americans.

The cottage is much bigger than Crowley remembered.

They get out and have a look round the tree-framed garden. Backlit by low-angled sun, leaves glow the full warm side of the spectrum from chartreuse through fiery golds and oranges into crimson. Crowley plots how he could train the outdoor space into an impenetrable jungle, a minimalist patio… or something unlike either of those.

Zirfl wanders round the outside of the cottage, remarking on the new aubergine paint, the vintage of the trim designs, and other architectural details.

“Looks quite different, but still a lovely little place.”

“We only saw it the one night, in the dark. I remembered it much smaller, though.”

“Hmm, yes, so did I.”

“D'you think Adam…?”

Zirfl shrugs, allowing the possibility. “But Anathema did say that Newton's been fixing it up, as well. Apparently he’s become rather a dab hand at DIY.”

“Oh, him. Well, that explains the car, if you can call it that.”

“Shall we knock?”

The sun is setting. Zirfl pauses at the sound of singing from inside, motions Crowley closer to hear.

Crowley's taken off his dark glasses in the dusk, and his golden eyes go wide under raised eyebrows. The peace of an old familiarity softens the sharp angles of his face as he mouths the words along with Anathema and Newt's voices.

_shalom aleichem_  
_malachei hashalom malachei elyon_  
_mimelech malchei hamelachim_  
_hakadosh baruch hu…_ [1]

“Hey, _angel_ ,” says Crowley, “it's our song.”

“Ah?”

“I’ll tell you the story in a bit. Still can't believe you've forgotten _loshn kodesh_ ,” sighs Crowley.

He also can't believe it's already Friday night, yet another week has passed since the planet got a new lease on life. He gets so tired these days, much more than when he worked for Hell. They both do. But at least now they’re properly free.

“It _has_ been an awfully long time since we all used Hebrew, you know.” Aziraphale had spent ages in service to Christendom, hadn’t he? Well, they both had, if you looked at it from a certain angle.

Crowley’s knees are about to give out, so he manoeuvers himself to lean ever so casually on the porch railing. “Don’t tell me, you were busy learning _Frawn-say_.”

“Cheek!” Zirfl gasps, but his eyes crinkle up with amusement.

Zirfl is dimly aware of Crowley’s pain and flagging energy, but the excitement of an Actual Social Occasion keeps distracting him. He waits to knock until after the voices from indoors reach the end of the song.

Anathema and Newt come to the door together, still laughing.

“Still can’t get used to the way you learnt it, we keep lengthening different syllables. Funny how what you heard growing up sticks with you…”

“Hey, at least I can carry a tune!”

Anathema opens the door. “Oh look, if it isn’t the Good Angel and the Bad Angel, right on time.”

“Yes, but which is which?!”

“ _I’m_ the witch, silly.” But Anathema sees Zirfl’s quizzical expression. “So, there’s this tradition,”

“Oh, good, _you_ can tell it,” says Crowley in a much weaker voice than he was going for.

“Yes, but come in - come in! And sit down. Mister Crowley, your aura is shaky as fuck. Are you okay?”

The kitchen is lit only by the lamps from the hall and the shabbos candles, a restful half-light. An ample table in the center could seat six in a pinch, but is set for four.

Crowley sinks into a chair with relief. “Anthony. ‘ll be fine. Just… long day.”

Newt lifts his wine and leads the _bracha_ for _kiddush,_ reading off a print-out.[2]

Anathema tears chunks from a fresh loaf of challah and passes pieces all round, while everyone but Zirfl murmurs the _hamotzi_ blessing.

There's a rather good roast chicken, and savoury sprouts and new potatoes baked along with the fowl instead of boiled. Anathema jokes about how they’re subverting gender roles almost accidentally, because Newt is the one that knows how to cook.

Zirfl makes sure Crowley gets a generous serving. His angel’s being very solicitous, and it’s… _nice_. Uncool ‘as fuck’, perhaps, but Crowley’s got to admit, at least to himself, that he can actually _enjoy_ being looked after.

There's more wine, and Zirfl pours for them both. His hands still shake a bit, because maybe his small motor function will never recover completely from his injuries, but he still has more coordination than Crowley in crash-mode, so it works out. It helps that the goblets are silver-plate, not glass.

Crowley perks up once he’s got some meat and alcohol in him. His mind and muscles both relax for a change, and he listens to the others through a comfortable haze.

Anathema finally gets to tell Zirfl about the ‘good angel’ and the ‘bad angel’ that are welcomed in the _Shalom Aleichem_ song. They visit on Friday nights and inspect the home. If they find the family well-prepared for shabbat, the angel says, “may it be like this next sabbath,” and the demon has to agree. But if they find the family not well-prepared, the sheyd gets to say the same thing and it’s the angel who has to agree.

Newt adds, “I think it’s about habits. About building good or bad habits every time a family repeats the _erev shabbos_ scramble, trying to get everything nice and tidy before the Sabbath. Supernatural beings are used a lot in folklore as a way of talking about natural processes… like how sheydim were thought to cause things that we now know are from bacteria… or just bad luck.”

“But we’ve _got_ a demon here. Well, ex-demon. But he looks pretty real to me!” If Crowley had more energy, demonic or otherwise, at his disposal, he’d probably show Newt a glimpse of one of his more terrifying forms, just to back up Anathema’s assertion. As it is, he fixes unblinking slit-pupiled eyes on him until Newt nervously breaks eye contact.

“Well, yes, but… that is to say… _most_ people don’t actually _know_ any angels or demons.”

“They _think_ they don’t.” Anathema gets that slightly wild look in her eyes that almost makes Newt want to believe in something. At the very least, he’d quite like to believe in Anathema.

Zirfl has been quietly enjoying the story… and the wine. But now he’s understood his part. “Well, I think you two have done simply a bang-up job of renovating the cottage. And this dinner has been lovely. I hope every Sabbath here will be as good.”

“Hear hear,” says Crowley, sloshing his cup in Zirfl’s general direction.

A good bit of the evening is spent hearing the younger couple’s travel plans. They’re letting out the cottage and going on holiday abroad together, because for the first time in her life Anathema is free of prophetic duties. Thanks to Anathema’s family fortune[3], for the first time in _Newt’s_ life he doesn’t have to worry about money. They’ll start off visiting Anathema’s parents in California, and then off to the Andean region of Colombia where some of her extended relatives on her mum’s side still live.

The candles burn on; piles of wax collect on the baking tin placed under the candlesticks. Conversation shifts at some point to the biggest surprise of the evening: that not only Crowley but also the human couple have recently decided to return to their Jewish roots.

“Yeah, it’s funny, in retrospect?” Anathema starts out.

“Well, it was Apocalypse day, there’d just been a flippin’ tornado. We thought we were going to die. Maybe.”

“Probably, let’s be real. And we’d just, um… there was a connection. Because of some stuff Agnes said.”

“I mean, yeah. Gotta give your ancestress her due. But I think she mainly gave us a head start. We’d have got there eventually.” But Newt looks at Anathema as if he still can’t believe his luck.

In answer, she elbows him in the arm and mock-growls: “You’re just lucky you’re a smooth operator, and a natural at magic.”

Newt blushes like whatever is the complete opposite of a smooth operator[4]. “So, erm, going back to yiddishkeit?… I mean my family was more assimilated, not so observant… you know how it can be here. English first and anything else second.”

Surprisingly (or maybe not so much), both Zirfl and Crowley nod with immediate recognition.

“But I’d been to hebrew school a bit as a child, and at least I knew the _Shema_.”

“Same. My family was mostly obsessed with The Book, and Agnes. But we sometimes attended a Sefardi congregation, because of my mom’s family. And I did have some religious and cultural education there growing up. I was always most interested in Jewish _magic_ , but when you’re eight you take what you can get.”

“Yeah! So we think we’re about to die, we both start saying the Shema, with like, different pronunciations, but we both knew it. And it was like…”

“I mean I don’t believe in fate, but it was… It made it feel more like… like this is… _right_.”

“Like maybe we belonged together after all, yeah?”

Anathema explains that in the process of getting to know each other after the world didn’t end, they’d decided they wanted to live a more Jewish life, at least keeping those rituals that most appeal to them.

“But Newt has really gotten into the whole witch thing, too. I mean he’ll never be your guy for high-tech magic, like network exorcisms and emoji spells or whatever, and that’s okay. But oldschool stuff? Potions, amulets, handcrafted instruments, even. And the mundane magic of home repair, of course. He’s _amazing_.” Anathema beams, as proud of her partner as she is of having helped in his self-discovery.

“Working my way up to making a golem!” Newt quips. “All my life I’d been trying to work with computers and only having one disaster after another. It never occurred to me that I should avoid 20th century tech-- or 21st for that matter, and try working with my hands. I think somehow I’d just assumed it’d be even worse.”

Zirfl nods, readjusting his specs. “It’s astounding what solutions you can puzzle out, given the necessary support.” He squeezes his partner’s hand, and Crowley understands.

Social and folkloric duties done, the occult and æthereal beings are eventually shown to their bedroom. Crowley is relieved that there’s no stairs to deal with.

Newt explains that he was able to remodel the cottage into two entirely separate apartments, so even when both sides of the house are occupied, the couples will have complete privacy.

Zirfl makes a great show of the wink-wink nudge-nudge that Newt is obviously too polite to do more than hint at, while Crowley blushes as deep a crimson as his hair.

Despite its many windows, the room is cozy, with thick curtains and plush area rugs. The bed has a good mattress and plenty of duvets. Once alone there, the two superhuman immortal beings just barely manage to strip down to their underthings before falling fast asleep, Zirfl’s warmth curled protectively around Crowley’s sharp shoulders and the brittle arc of his back.

* * *

1\. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=913jZFL1bdE [*]

2\. I think we all know that his partner keeps her iPad and smartphone locked away. Newt can make any _device_ stop working… just look at Anathema.[*]

3\. That is, thanks to Agnes.[*]

4\. So, like Crowley.[*]


	21. and then the angels forget to pray for us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm stretching meaning a little desperately with the chapter titles... oh well ;P

When his eyes struggle open the next day, Crowley is again relieved to find that the curtains are, as he’d hoped, light-blocking: one less thing to change. He gets up, does his snakelike thing, paces a bit, then it’s back to bed. Without waking, Zirfl reflexively pulls him in and nuzzles the back of his head. Crowley draws Zirfl’s warm arms closer around him, kissing those soft hands until Zirfl grumbles in his dream. By a great effort, Crowley keeps himself still and eventually sleep takes him again.

Once he’s a little more ready to face light, Crowley opens one curtain and sits on the cushioned window-seat, with the sun on his back as he slowly gets dressed.

A little later, Zirfl wakes with a start and sees an unfamiliar room that somehow registers as Not A Hotel. “Crowley! Where are we? What’s happened?,” his voice beginning to shrill with panic.

“You _know_ , we’re in Tadfield.”

“I _doooon’t_ ,” Zirfl pleads. He’s not crying… yet. He gulps. “I wouldn’t _ask_ if I knew.”

This doesn’t happen every morning, _baruch hashem_ , but it’s not the first time. Crowley, contrite, makes his way back to the bed. “You’ll remember soon, love. We’re at Anathema’s. It was your idea.” He sits by Zirfl, stroking his hands and then his face, remembering for him until the confusion subsides. “It’s Saturday. We had shabbos dinner with them. Newt’s a pretty good cook. They told us their travel plans. You’ve arranged for us to house-sit for them. We’re going to use this side of the cottage when we want to get away from London.”

Crowley’s plain summaries only serve to bring the sensory memories of last night within reach so Zirfl can catch them and smell, taste, see everything with his own mind again. Sniffling, he waits for it all to more or less line up. “I remember it now, Crowley dear. I remember it all.”

Crowley pulls him closer, kisses him carefully on the forehead… “If ever you don’t… it’s okay. We’ll figure something out.”

Zirfl gets up stiffly and dresses, still meticulously vintage. Looking like his same old self, maybe he can face the world.

They don’t like to go through other people’s things for a spare comb, so the two of them sit on the bed to neaten each other’s hair. In the past month, Crowley has stopped straightening his, and has grown it out a bit. Zirfl’s fingers, patient as Crowley’s words, untangle wine-dark curls that turn to copper in the sun.

* * *

After a leisurely breakfast of pastries that Newt left for them, Crowley and Zirfl are sitting on a bench outside the cottage hedgerow. Crowley’s gaze wanders over to the village green where Anathema, Newt, and The Them are arranged in a rough hexagon, kicking a football among them.

Anathema is the only one who seems to have any actual skills, although Pepper seems a quick study and Adam can learn anything he puts his mind to. Anathema waves Crowley over, and the circle expands to let him in.

Crowley lasts about five minutes before there’s an audible pop from one knee. His face crunches up and he gets about one phoneme into an oath, suddenly remembers the children, and turns it into an awkward sigh. With the football on its way over to Pepper, Crowley ducks apologetically back out of the circle, limps over to the little bench and sits down heavily.

Zirfl leapt up as soon as he felt Crowley’s pain, but now sits back down, still grimacing.

Crowley, eyes closed, is gripping his knee.

“I do wish you’d be careful. You simply can’t go about hurting yourself all the time.” Zirfl hovers a hand over Crowley’s, afraid to touch but wanting to help. “Can you… Can we put it back?”

Crowley just grunts.

“Why do you keep on having a body--”

“Wha--?” Crowley opens his eyes to find that Adam has appeared in front of him.

“...when it hurts so much?”

“Don’t--” Crowley lifts his hands as if to push away whatever ideas the ex-antichrist might get into his head.

“Adam--” Zirfl’s voice takes such a threatening tone that he doesn’t need any flaming sword.

“It was just a _question_ , I’m not gonna… _change_ anything. Also why can I hear what you two are thinking, but not everyone else? And why is Newt so crap at football, if he’s a witch now, too?”

Zirfl softens. His attention is back on Crowley’s pain, but he speaks to Adam: “My dear boy, perhaps this is not the moment…”

Crowley squeezes Zirfl’s hand a little too hard. It’s bad, but he wouldn’t mind a distraction, so he says to the kid: “you’ve… got a lot of… questions.”

“A very admirable quality indeed,” says Zirfl, with a little half-smile.

“They’re _Human_. Wouldn’t be right… if you could read all _their_ minds.”

“And witches don’t _necessarily_ specialise in sport. I rather think Anathema’s football expertise is unrelated to magic. Perhaps she was on a team at university? I believe that’s what they do in America.”

“I wish I could learn things with you two and Anathema, instead of the silly old classes we have to go to.”

“Tell you what, Adam,” Crowley begins.

“ _If_ you go to school with your friends like you’re supposed to,” interjects Zirfl.

“We can all teach you some extra things… so you don’t get bored.”

“You skipped one,” says Adam.

“About that,” Crowley lets out a sharp breath. “Remember how you decided… you liked having a human life? Human parents? And you wanted to stay in Tadfield and hang out with your friends… instead of having _dominion over the earth_?” (he puts on a mocking posh accent for the last bit).

“‘Course. It was only like a few weeks ago.”

“Well, it's a bit like that.”

“Except _you_ don't get to be human.”

Crowley winces, rubbing at his knee as an evasive measure. Plus, that still hurts, too. “No, but…”

“We experience many of the joys and sorrows of Human earthly life,” fills in Zirfl.

“Oh, you mean sorta like an RPG?”

Crowley, who received a commendation from Hell in the 1980s for the supposed satanic influence of D&D, grimaces and nods, while Zirfl looks blank.

“It's a type of group storytelling game, angel. You might like it,” says Crowley, and immediately regrets it.

“Oh, how fascinating!”

“You guys could play with us next time we start a new campaign. I’m always DM, of course. But we’ll let you be anybody you want,” says Adam magnanimously.

Crowley and Zirfl say simultaneously, “We might be in London,” and “That sounds splendid!”

“We’ll let you know, and you can decide then.” Adam, not one for excessive patience with indecisive grown-ups, goes cheerfully back to the football circle.

“D’you see, Crowley? I think we may fit in perfectly well here. You needn’t have worried.”

“I guess it… might be… okay, yeah. When’d she say they’re leaving? We’ll need to hire movers, bring some of our own things here.”

“Ooh, yes! Your plants! My-- my books…” but all the enthusiasm goes out of Zirfl’s voice, when he remembers.

Crowley takes his hand, gently this time. “Hey… What’s wrong, love?” Can’t call him ‘angel’ when they’re being serious…

“It’s ridiculous, but I can’t… go back… to the shop.”

“‘S not ridiculous. But, not even with me?”

“I _can’t_.” Zirfl whispers. “I’ve tried… to ask you to take me there. But just thinking about it…” he shivers.

“I get it. I mean, sort of. For a while after the fire, whenever I thought about your shop I’d smell burning in the back of my mind.” But that had mostly stopped when Aziraphale came back to him. surely Crowley can sort this… that’s what he does, right? In the meantime, “well, you make me a list, just like we’ve _been_ doing. I’ll find all the books you want.”

“I do _enjoy_ staying at yours, my dear. You’ve been so generous with your space, your time, your energy. With your whole _self_. And I know we’ll make the cottage _ours_ , well, our side of it at any rate. But the shop,” Zirfl hesitates, twisting his hands in his lap. “it was like a… it was my _home_.” Finally, on the last word, his voice breaks. He goes quiet and looks down, lips pursed in disappointment at himself. Every bit of training tells him he should manage to count his blessings, but he only keeps finding more buried pain.

“Fucking _bastard_ angels,” says Crowley, eloquently.

Zirfl doesn’t even pretend to blink at the phrasing. He just lifts his head slightly, turns almost imperceptibly towards Crowley, and graces him with a tiny fraction of a smile.


	22. there are heroes in the seaweed, there are children in the morning

The two aetherial (or occult) beings sit in silence for another moment, each in their own thoughts, only peripherally aware that the football practice across the way has come to an end. 

The Them stand close together on the village green, conferring very seriously about who-knows-what.

Zirfl changes the topic first. “Fancy a bit of a stroll?” 

“First lemme see if I can _move_ ,” says Crowley.

“Oh, I’m so dreadfully sorry, dear. I just meant to get both our minds off…” he gestures vaguely. 

“Sure, good idea.” Crowley experimentally sprawls his long limbs to take up all of the bench not occupied by Zirfl, particularly moving the wonky knee in various directions. When no terrible noises or jolts of pain ensue, he allows himself a languid “Yeah, alright then.”

Anathema and Newt approach as Zirfl’s helping Crowley to his feet. “We need to go finish packing, but The Them were saying they could show you guys around the village, if you want.” Anathema grins at Crowley as if she knows all of his objections to Tadfield, and is determined to subvert them. (Knowing them better than they yet know each other, this is perhaps accurate.) 

“Just the thing! We were thinking of having a look round,” agrees Zirfl.

Crowley sighs: he can’t win. Or rather, he’s already won the only wager that mattered, and the rest is just for fun. He takes Zirfl’s arm, and turns a limp into a swagger.

Soon they’re surrounded. Are The Them really only four kids? They seem like loads more, especially when they’re all moving and talking at once.

“One question at a time, please, dears! The poor old brain can only manage so much!” Zirfl flutters his fingers at his temples and pulls a self-deprecatingly desperate face.

The children dissolve into giggles, then shove at each other until it is determined that Brian will go first:

“Are you _really_ Angels?”

“Sort of.” Why, Crowley wonders, does he find it so impossible to lie to kids?! “Well, _he_ is-- was. We… we both _were_. We’re… retired, erm, like pensioners?”

“My mum says angels are just a mefa… thingummy. Not really real.”

“ _My_ parents _say_ they believe in angels, but _actually_ , ‘cording to Wikipedia, angels don’t exist.”

Crowley gets a mischievous look in his eyes: “You know, anyone can edit that. There could be _demons_ on there, writing that angels aren’t real.”

Zirfl elbows him, _hard_. 

Crowley yelps. “What? Sometimes I can’t sleep…”

“Would you like to see a magic trick?” says Zirfl, pointedly to everyone-but-Crowley.

The ex-demon rolls his eyes.

The Them exchange doubtful looks. 

“Everyone knows magic is fake--”

“Yeah, you can learn how on TikTok.”

Undeterred, the ex-angel squinches up his face in concentration, then grins smugly as a perfect little circle of light appears to float slightly above his silvery curls.

“How’d you do that?!”  
“Have you got LEDs in your head?”  
“Make it change colours!”  
“Let us borrow it?” 

Zirfl bobs a curtsy, lowering his head so one of Them can pick the halo out of his hair.

“Show-off,” says Crowley unconvincingly. Good job no one notices how his sharp features soften, when he watches his angel being kind and clever with children.

The kids take turns, not without some more jostling and scuffling. The light is warm, but not hot; the immaterial circle stretches, but doesn’t break. When Pepper at last gets to try it on, there’s a collective gasp, and a sort of wordless agreement that it suits her the best, how the gentle glow illumines the spherical puff of her hair. She’ll wear the halo like a crown for the rest of the day, until sometime that night when it will fade imperceptibly and disappear amongst her dreams.

The kids may or may not believe in angels, now, but their questions haven’t been exhausted. “If you’re Pensioners… That must mean you’re really old, like… older than our parents? My Nan is _sixty_.” 

“You can’t just _say_ that to people, Brian!”

“But they’re men. Technically, it’s only rude when you ask a woman if she’s old.”

“Wensley, _you know_ that’s just a Sexist Double Standard.” 

“We’re… erm… we’re not actually _men_ ,” Crowley feels obliged to clarify. 

Pepper is in her element, now: “Ooh, my mum has a friend that only _looks_ like a man. That means she’s a _Lesbian_.”

Zirfl’s face goes through several emotions in quick succession, at least one of them amusement. “Are you sure, my dear?… that is to say… sometimes? But perhaps it’s a bit more complicated.”

“How do you know? Are _you_ a Lesbian?”

Wensely has his revenge: “Pepper! You can’t just _ask_ people that!”

“Oh, that’s right. They might be Living in a Closet,” Pepper recovers quickly, determined not to be outdone on the Gay Knowledge front.

“Like Harry Potter, in the cupboard under the stairs?” Says Brian, hopefully.

“It means _Secret_ Lesbians. My mum’s friend is an _Out of Doors_ one. She likes going for walks in the forest with her Pride shirt on.”

“Okay, so here’s the thing,” Crowley elects to give the basics. “We’re not human, and we _are_ very old. But we don’t work for… anyone, anymore. So we don’t have as much power as we did before. We’re just… sort of regular people, now.”

Zirfl adds, “We’re not meant to be men _or_ women; we’re sort of neither… mostly? But humans aren’t _required_ to be just those two genders, either.”

“We’re not?” Pepper catches Brian staring openmouthed at Zirfl. She would be displaying the same state of intrigued amazement herself, but she’s still got to show the boys who’s boss, now that it’s not Adam anymore.

_Keep it simple, angel…_ “And, erm, we look how we like. Some days we might look different…”

“But we _have_ got a bit set in our ways after so many years…”

“Speak for yourself!” says Crowley, indignant.

“How come the angels in pictures always look like women, but you two look like men?”

“Well, that’s merely Artistic Interpretation. In reality, angels and… our colleagues… can look… any number of ways.”

“Can you turn into animals?” wonders Brian.

Pepper is quick to correct: “Don’t be stupid, that’s witches, not angels!”

“Does Anathemer turn into an animal at nights? What if she turns into this amazing black cat, and just prowels around town in the dark, looking for… magic… stuff.” Wensley runs out of ideas at the end there, but the group speculation is off and running.

Crowley shares a relieved look with Zirfl: the pressure is off, at least for a little while. Hopefully it’ll take the kids a while to find out about the shapeshifting… He’d much rather not go full serpent during the colder months. What if he forgot how to get back?

“She _already_ cycles round town in the dark, _without_ turning into a cat.”

“What Ever. She could--”

“Hey, what d’you think Newt turns into?”

“Prob’ly nothing. He’s just a _beginner_ witch. I think you have to be really good at it to turn into stuff.”

Adam has been oddly silent most of this time. While the others chatter on, establishing their own Mythology of the Occult, he pulls at Crowley’s sleeve, “You used to work for the… for my… not-dad?”

“Well… technically? I s’pose I did.”

“What’s he like?”

“Funny enough, I never spent much time with him.”

Zirfl says, sotto voce, “I wonder why not?!”

Crowley elbows him, just hard enough to show it’s definitely _not_ because he’s _nice._ “The thing is, once he sort of got to be in charge Down There, well, he had loads of subordinates. Erm… like a bureaucracy? You know how your school has a headmaster and also those people in the offices that decide stuff, and also teachers, and assistant teachers? Levels and levels of people _pestering_ each other about _work_. I mostly reported to Beelzebub, the erm… _intense_ one that you saw at the airbase, or else to some of my, ah, co-workers.”

“Oh.” Adam isn’t sure what he expected Hell to be like, but… _not this_. 

“Well, _you’ve_ met him. Your… not-dad.”

“Is he always like that?” Adam pulls a menacing face, curls his hands into claws, and mimes a bit of earthquake. 

“Mostly? It’s not like he ever had us all round for… coffee or anything.”

Zirfl’s brow wrinkles in concern. “Adam, it’s quite alright to be curious. But… is there something wrong? In your… human life?”

“No, it’s just. My real dad. He’s awfly… _boring_. And even my not-dad is just,” he lowers his voice, “the _Hell_ version of Mister Tyler.”

“ _Everybody’s_ real dad is boring. They’re _actually_ supposed to be.”

“Except Pepper’s,” says Brian, intending to give the unknown the benefit of the doubt.

She turns to glare at him, but softens when she sees no more meanness in his expression than there was in his voice. “Nah, Mum says _he_ was boring, too.”

That, it seems, is the definitive proof for The Them. Several voices at once say things like “There, _see_?!”, “Even Pepper’s!” and “Bor-ring!”

By this time they’ve reached the end of the high street where most of the shops are. The Them scramble over each other to point out an ice cream place, a pub, a grocer’s with fruit and veg out front… and an antiques shop. 

Zirfl focuses on that last one. “Ooh I simply _must_ have a look in there!” he says, with a happy little full-body wiggle. 

“Go on then, we’ve all the time in the world,” smiles Crowley indulgently. “Meanwhile I think I should probably treat our tour guides to some ice cream.”


	23. they are leaning out for love and they will lean that way forever

The offer of ice cream is, as expected, met with various cries of “YES!”, “wicked!”, and “brilliant!”. The kids run ahead to the sweets shop and stand looking at the menu in the window, while Crowley makes his way down the pavement, carefully disguising his cautious gait as a leisurely saunter.

Only Adam looks back, cool grey eyes piercing Crowley’s dark glasses, through slit-pupiled golden irises clear into his mind. _You alright?_

He knows the boy can read both pain and contentment there, so no use pretending. _Sort of. Mostly._

_How?_

_It’s nice, this. I’d forgotten…_ He’s not sure what explanation could make sense.

_You’ve got People._ An ex-antichrist gets it.

Crowley flashes him a smile. But then he wonders: _What about you? Are you okay?_

_I think so._ There’s something familiar in Adam’s inner voice, something ancient. _I’m… tired. Is that weird?_

_Nope. Takes a lot outta ya, saving the world._

_Everything’s changed, even though I put it all back. The Them aren’t My Gang anymore._

_Pepper’s brilliant, though. You trust her._

_Yeah, but she’s-- ugh-- why does she have to be so--?! Sometimes I think about her even when she’s not there…_ This time there’s no question what’s going on with Adam’s inner voice.

In Adam’s mind (and on the pavement beside him), Pepper stands proud, crowned with light.

Crowley’s mind flashes through a few millennia of his own attempts to get closer to Aziraphale. _Not such a bad thing, really. Just… Enjoy being friends. Give it time._ But not that much time. Humans! The mind boggles at how fast they’ve gotta figure things out. These ones are young, though. They’ve got a little while yet.

* * *

He’s reached the ice cream shop, and they all go in together, taking a booth.

“Budge up,” says Adam to Pepper. 

She pulls a face, but not as if she were really cross with him, and slides down the bench.

Across the table from them, Brian and Wensley jostle each other goodnaturedly.

Crowley pulls up a chair to lean on, but doesn’t sit. If he were to sit down now, he’d have trouble getting up again.

The small shop doesn’t look the sort of place that would manage to stock 42 flavours of ice cream, but ever since Adam’s reset of reality, that’s what they’ve got. They all order and Crowley pays in advance, tipping according to the predicted level of chaos. The Them have already turned to topics he can barely follow; new slang, private jokes and school gossip zinging among them at lightspeed. And Brian’s sure to leave the table, and probably the bench and floor, a right mess.

Once everyone has got their parfait, sundae, thick shake, or cone, Crowley excuses himself to bring Zirfl his order. There are brief, cheerful goodbyes, and the noise level in the sweets shop rises exponentially before he’s even out the door.

* * *

Out in the street it’s quieter, just a few people running errands. The day is clear, with the fragile warmth of autumn afternoons. Crowley absentmindedly licks the drips off Zirfl’s caramel coconut ninety-nine flake, then remembers he’s got his own peppermint espresso shake. His brain is still buzzing from all the unexpected interaction. 

Crowley finds Zirfl sitting in the sun on a bench outside the antiques shop, and joins him, glad to sit down properly (that is, as properly as he ever does).

“Ooh! Thanks everso much, dear!” Zirfl tucks into his ice cream with gusto. “Mmmm! It was lovely of you to take the children by yourself. I did need a bit of quiet.”

“You were really good with them,” says Crowley, and means it.

“Have we been too imprudent, do you think? Did we tell them too much?”

“It’s not like their parents’ll believe anything too weird. For my money, we’re probably fine.”

“The good people of Tadfield do appear to have an extra talent for forgetting the more inconvenient realities.”

“I’ve gotta admit you were right about the kids,” Crowley turns serious. “They took on some of humankind’s worst inventions, and sent them packing. Before we know it, they’ll be grown-ups… in a world that makes less and less sense the older you get.”

“Yes! I think… they deserve whatever small kindnesses and moments of wonder we can give them. We owe them… as much of our time as they will happily accept.”

Crowley nods. He notices something sticking out from behind Zirfl’s coat: one end of a long parcel, wrapped in brown paper. “Hey, wotcha hiding there? Find a new sword?!”

“Oh! I… got you a present. Reminded me of something you used to have. Well… you’ll see.” He extracts the parcel and hands it over.

Crowley tears off the paper to find three sturdy lengths of steel-reinforced mahogany that screw together into a cane! With its silverplate snake-head handle, it _is_ very similar to a walking stick he owned in the 19th century. Crowley stares at it a bit, remembering. The original was almost an accessory, as he barely needed something to lean on back then. When his joints (and his worries) started to get really bad, he just forced himself to go back to sleep for another few decades. But he can’t sleep through pain like he used to. Also, now he’s got a life to get on with.

“I suppose it’s not the height of fashion anymore… and I know how you like to be up-to-date. But I thought… perhaps… for nostalgia’s sake…” Zirfl’s face flushes pink and he looks over at Crowley apologetically.

“No, no, it’s perfect. Let’s walk back; I’ll try it out!”

The walking stick is (miraculously?) just the right length for him, and Crowley moves more securely with it, as they retrace their steps towards the other end of the village.


	24. when you're not feeling holy, your loneliness says that you've sinned

“I was thinking about that time we met up in eighteen… sixty-two, was it?” Of course Zirfl _would_ remember the exact date, _and_ pretend he doesn’t.

“I know. Me too.”

“And you asked me to help you get--”

_Holy water._ “Yeah. And you refused.”

“I’m sorry, Crowley. I’m always so slow… to understand.”

“Maybe you were right…”

“Ah?”

“You were at my trial. You know what I did with it.”

Zirfl stares at him, turning that over in his mind. He suspects that in all those thousands of years, the so-called demon never actually killed anyone. And then, suddenly, _in extremis_ … “But if you hadn’t… Ligur would’ve…” he looks to Crowley for confirmation, “wouldn’t he?”

“Yes, but still. I did what I did. And I’ve got to live with that.”

They walk in silence, crunching leaves underfoot. Just yesterday there wasn’t such a carpet of fallen foliage.

He hasn’t checked lately, but in the back of his mind Crowley is pretty sure that on the Hebrew calendar they must be somewhere in the month of Elul. Soon, synagogues all over the world will be having their most attended services, for the High Holy Days. Before Rosh HaShana, there’s meant to be weeks of mending your errors, of conscience-clearing: Jews in every continent trying to start the year with a clean slate. Then, just a week into the new year, there’s Yom Kippur, the fast day for turning back to better ways. Like it or not, Autumn is making Crowley introspective.

“They say there’s only two sins that a person can’t make amends for, you know,” he says, some moments later.

“Really? I should’ve thought there were more.” _Zirfl, always the optimist…_

“Well, against other people, anyway… There's _Lashon hara_ , sort of… slander, gossip sort of thing? because you can’t undo the damage to someone’s reputation. And murder, because the victim isn’t there anymore, for you to make it up to them.”

“Surely self-defence isn’t the same as murder?”

“It depends. If there was any other way to stop them…”

“Was there, though?”

“I don’t know.” Crowley has gone over it in his mind countless times, still he tries once more. “I only had a few moments to think. But still.”

“I would’ve done the same, if it were me.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

Zirfl is silent for a while. Then, sheepishly, he says, “I oughtn’t to have kept calling you a demon.”

“‘S what I am.”

“You _know_ what I mean.”

“You only said it _to my face_ , though. It’s not like you went round telling _other_ people how infernally doomed I was.”

“Still. I hope you can forgive me.”

“You had your reasons.”

“But still.”

Crowley swallows hard. To really forgive, he’d have to admit how much it hurt. And maybe he’s fresh out of vulnerability just now.

“It’s been a long day, love. Can we, erm…?”

“Of course! Sorry, my dear--”

“It’s fine. We’re okay. Right? And… thank you for this,” he brandishes the cane, “Just what I needed!”

* * *

That evening, Anathema and Newt knock on the door between the two apartments, and come round to say goodbye. They leave a list of local contacts for various purposes, in case they can’t be reached by mobile. Listed under “extra miracles” is “Adam Young( ~~?~~ )( ~~probably~~ )”.

Anathema hugs Zirfl, and then, to his great surprise, also Crowley. He can’t remember the last time he was hugged by anyone other than his angel. Americans! This one’s okay, though.

Newt shakes hands, awkwardly, as he does everything. He’s alright as well.

They’ll take an Uber to the airport, where Anathema will tip the driver a surprising amount of cash.

* * *

The ex-demon and the ex-angel are alone in the cottage. They have some wine, just a glass or so, to relax. It doesn’t work.

Zirfl suggests they turn in early, and Crowley doesn’t argue, but then he hasn’t said much since the walk home.

“Come along to bed. Aren’t you cold there?”

Crowley’s sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the darkened window. Their reflections could easily be mistaken for two old men, dressed only in vests, pants, and socks. One barely moves; the other keeps bumbling about. The picture of people who’ve waited too long, who’ve lived through too much alone. Crowley wants to laugh, or something.

Zirfl draws closed the drapes, sits down next to Crowley, and waits.

“They wouldn’t have _killed_ me, you know. Hastur and Ligur. It’s not protocol. Even Sa-- even Himself Downstairs doesn’t usually _kill_ people.”

“Then…?”

“Worse. Solitary.”

“Until…?”

“Forever.”

Zirfl’s eyes go wide, as he tries and fails to imagine that. “You mean… Eternity?”

“Never seeing you again. I couldn’t. I had to do something.”

“Oh, Crowley…” Zirfl takes his hand and strokes it.

The gentleness, that’s when Crowley breaks. Curls in on himself, first chuckling, but soon sobbing.

Zirfl tries to hold him, but Crowley keeps writhing away as if Zirfl’s touch burns him.

“My dear… don’t cry… you did what you had to… oh… please…” _What do you need? How can I help? FUCK._

Crowley lets out a last cackle. “Wouldn’t it be funny if it was all true, _angel_.” His voice cracks on that word. “If what you thought of me… was right all along.”

As Crowley tires, his weeping grows quieter and he lets himself be held.

Zirfl whispers, desperate, trying to keep his voice soft. “I was _wrong_ … you _are_ good… you’re the kindest person I know… you’ve _got_ to believe me…” Soothes him until his breathing quietens. Then he gathers up all of Crowley’s sharp angles and, stumbling only a little, deposits him carefully in the bed. The being that was once a guardian of Eden curls around the being that helped bring us nebulae and knowledge. Crowley shivers in his sleep. Zirfl draws up the duvets and lies there staring into the darkness, daring it to take them both.


	25. and where do all these highways go, now that we are free

When Ligur first came to, the day after the Apocalypse (or not, apparently), he felt something was missing. It took him another few moments to realise that what was missing was his humanoid body. He’d been fond of that corporation, too. Really gotten used to it. A chameleon wouldn’t last long on the streets of London, though, so he sent out a mental probe. Noone was answering. Surely they couldn’t _all_ be in a meeting?! That was rare. Well, he’d sort it himself. You didn’t get to be a Duke of Hell without some leverage… and some skills at manipulating reality. 

* * *

Ligur expects to arrive back Below to a hero’s welcome… Surely it’s not only Upstairs that has a certain reverence for people risen from the dead? Still, he’s not too alarmed when noone notices his chameleon form creeping as best it can along the mouldy, dingy hallways. After all, it’s a bit embarrassing to lose a body, so he’s keeping a low profile. Soon enough, he’s reached the recorporation department and used his high clearance level to procure a fresh body with roughly the same appearance as the previous one. A few tweaks to the face, and his signature appearance is ready. He dresses it in fairly standard dark clothing from the department’s storage, choosing wool when possible. One thing he didn’t miss about the Home Office, when he was aboveground: the cold and damp down here. Makes England look a bloody paradise by comparison. Ligur reaches with his mind over to his old cubicle, finds his second-best fur-trimmed leather coat hanging on a peg, and brings it to him with just a small mental tug. Ah, there. Now that’s better. He feels like himself again.

He closes the recorporation area’s door firmly behind him, and looks both ways down the corridor. Oh, here’s ‘orrible old ‘astur at least, coming to marvel at his safe return. 

To his utter astonishment, however, Hastur manages to act as if he can’t see Ligur at all. What a joker, that Hastur. He proceeds to walk right through Ligur, only shivering slightly as if the air has changed temperature. That’s not right. He’s just collected this body, inspected it carefully before recorporating in it; it’s real as real.

“OI! HASTUR!! Come back here and fess up, sharpish, or I’ll have your nonexistent brains for breakfast.” _Whatever._ It’s not like it matters if he’s mixed a metaphor, as Hastur apparently cannot hear a thing. 

Ligur strides as confidently as he can towards the main office area, but he’s starting to really have some doubts. 

He walks into, and through, a few unimportant colleagues, until he’s face to face with Old Beezlebug themself. Ligur bows slightly. Just enough that noone could say he didn’t. “Lord Beelzebub?” 

They don’t look up. “Oi, Guv?”

As if they never heard him. 

He raps on their desk. His hand makes no sound on the cold metal, but some paperwork flutters slightly. “I Have Returned,” growls Ligur, in his best Dramatic Reveal intonation. 

And none of it fucking matters, because Beelzebub gets up, looks where his eyes are without seeing him, and, impossibly, walks clean through him. 

Ligur’s got an idea what must be happening. It has to do with how beliefs and assumptions affect reality for demons (and angels). They all firmly believe him to be dead, so the actual reality in which he’s alive becomes not just invisible, but _imperceptible_ to all the denizens of Hell.

He shudders. Even though he’s worked out what’s going on, every time someone walks through him, the experience gets more uncomfortable. Whatever is inside him that is _Ligur_ … Demons don’t have souls, what are you on about?! His inner chameleon, maybe? Is feeling distinctly off-colour. Ligur’s self, that he's not meant to have, wants to be sick on Beelzebub’s office floor. He gives in to the impulse, but aims for the desk, and emits a satisfying stream of… let’s say ectoplasm? to gum up their files. He wipes his mouth, and grins. _That’ll show ‘em…_

Ligur is making rapid recalculations. This might look like a setback, might feel like he’s losing everything he’s ever known, but why should it be? There’s no reason in Hell (or out of Hell, either) that he can’t work out how to use this situation to his absolute advantage. Plus, he has contacts and leverage aboveground as well. Time to look them up. He even knows someone who has managed to leave The Firm and not just survive but thrive. And that someone owes him. Bigtime.


	26. i used to live alone before i knew ya

Zirfl and Crowley take the train back to London… no messing about with bus routes, this time. They only stay for a day, to pack up what they want at the cottage and hand it over to the movers. They find themselves missing the quiet village almost straight away.

“Perhaps we’ll feel nostalgic for the hubbub of The City, too, after a while?” wonders Zirfl.

“We can come back any time.” Crowley’s got an automatic-watering system rigged up for the bigger plant-pots, and has arrayed some others (that he’d like to keep an eye on) neatly in crates to be brought along by the movers. He’s not bringing much else to the cottage, just a few changes of clothes and one or two mementos. All the music he needs, he can put in his phone, where it won’t even turn into Queen… unless he wants it to. Crowley’s also been by the shop with the movers to collect Zirfl’s list: certain books, a sofa and chair, a few decorative items.

There’s been no attempt on Zirfl’s part to visit the bookshop. They’re both hoping the calm and peaceful life will help him feel ready to return there one day, and for now it’s just a question of waiting. Instead, he finishes packing away everything of his that’s already made its way into Crowley’s flat, clothes and books that he wants near to hand and the big magnifying frame that he uses often. He didn’t think he’d made much of an impact on Crowley’s decor, but his items fill several boxes.

“There. Your flat looks like yours again,” Zirfl says, trying for flippant and missing it by a mile.

“It’s like you never stayed here,” says Crowley, rather more horrified than he expected to be at the restoration of his own minimalist tidiness. “Promise me you’ll come back?”

“Of course, darling.”

Crowley stops still in the doorway, wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the new term of endearment. Finally he manages to ask, “Erm… wot’d you just say?”

Zirfl turns toward him, all innocently puzzled. “Just as you said, we can come back, together, whenever we like.”

“Nghk,” says Crowley.

Zirfl holds a straight face for about another half a second, but then he can’t any longer. “Oh… my _darling_ Crowley. You _shall_ listen to how much I love you. There’s simply no stopping me now.”

After a bit of helpless flailing, Crowley remembers that Zirfl’s mouth, if not his cheek, may sometimes be stopped with kisses, so he has a go at that.

The flustered immortal beings must untangle themselves when the door buzzes.

Crowley introduces the movers, a wiry pair whose identical smiles and familiar manner give them away as obviously siblings. In addition to their uniform overalls, one wears a hijab and the other a kufi cap. The four of them chat about the weather and whether the block of flats was difficult to find, as Zirfl brings boxes and crates out to be stacked on the movers’ hand-trucks, and Crowley locks up.

While they all wait for the lift, Zirfl tips the young people quite a lot more than the expected amount. “Here’s a bit extra for a good lunch on your way. The train will get us there a bit later, and we wouldn’t want you to have to wait for us.” In the street, he hails a cab to Paddington Station.

On the train-ride back to the village, they find seats in the least-crowded carriage.

Crowley’s glasses don’t quite manage to conceal the dark hollows round his eyes; with his mind on the changes ahead, he hasn’t slept well in his own flat, and his limbs are restless even in exhaustion. At least they didn’t attempt to move house without help. How much more would he be hurting if he’d actually done any of the heavy lifting himself?

Zirfl feels cold waves of pain radiating off Crowley’s spine. Pacing about obviously isn’t helping, and the train will soon lurch into motion. “Come sit,” he pats the cushion beside him.

Crowley complies, wincing as he reaches the seat. “Do your worst,” he smirks, but leans into Zirfl’s outstretched arm.

All Zirfl can do is rub Crowley’s back, but he summons all the aetherial (and occult?) warmth at his disposal, and contrives to absorb as much nervous energy as possible.

The payoff is when Crowley’s head slumps onto Zirfl's chest and he even begins to snore a little.

Zirfl hasn’t got the ex-demon’s facility for stopping time, but what he _can_ do is intensify restfulness, so that a one-hour kip has almost the effect of a full night’s sleep. This takes a lot out of him, miracle-wise, and they end up napping together until the train reaches Tadfield.

* * *

The next day, they’re unpacking everything they brought from London. The hominess of the cottage only increases now they’ve got their ‘at home’ clothes. Zirfl wears a plush cardigan and foregoes a tie, Crowley’s cozy (if still monochrome) with a thick, fluffy jumper and knit leggings in shades of grey and black.

The last drawing in Aziraphale's old style, still with its stains and creases from being in his pocket on That Night, goes on the bedroom wall. Zirfl straightens the simple frame and wonders aloud, “a talisman… Should we have more of those, d’you think?”

“Well, we definitely need a mezuzah at the front door. But… good-luck charms? D’you _believe_ in that sort of thing?”

“I didn’t use to. Do you?”

Crowley shrugs.

“Which _side_ is all that, anyway? I mean… how do they _work_?”

“Ha! We used to debate that Downstairs, too.”

“So… noone’s sure?”

“It’s all very… Human.” As usual, Crowley somehow infuses the species name with equal parts wonder and WTF.

“Well, we can’t help but believe in _them_ , now can we?” An averted apocalypse is more than enough to inspire Zirfl’s instinct for belief. So why had it taken him so long… no, best not go there.

“Anathema said Newt was good at amulets and such…” remembers Crowley.

A bit later, while putting some of his own things away, Zirfl motions Crowley over to look in an open dresser drawer. About twenty different hamsas, fishes, pentagrams, and evil eye decorations lie face down in a couple of shoebox lids. “Are these his handiwork, then?” He holds up a note. “Oh! How thoughtful!”

> _Hi, we had these up on the wall, but then we weren’t sure if it would be bad for you guys. You’re welcome to hang them back up, or leave them on our side (key is in kitchen). AD_
> 
> _Hope you like these… but in case you have a problem touching them, just pick up the boxes. -- N.P._

Crowley grins. “I’ve visited homes that were fairly plastered in _ayin hara_ , but since I wasn’t there _on business_ , they never gave me any trouble.”

“Because you’re Not Actually Evil,” says Zirfl cheerfully.

“Nrgh!,” grunts Crowley, but he hasn’t stopped smiling. It’s lovely to see, really, how just a touch of contentment brings out his true radiance… like sunlight streaming through red and gold stained-glass.

“Let’s put them back up, then.” Zirfl is already eyeing the tacks left on the wall to re-hang the ceramic, metal, and wooden ornaments in a pleasing arrangement. Suddenly remembering his own Fallen status, he gingerly touches a cobalt glass circle, then lets out a breath of relief when nothing happens.

Crowley’s still pondering: “I think you’re onto something, though.”

“Hm?” Zirfl is already half-distracted making a balanced display.

“It might be good to have some protection… against Above _and_ Below.”

Zirfl adjusts a polychrome hamsa, and frets: “We shall have to design our own. That means research, and I’m not at all sure I’ve brought the right books.”

“You know, we’ve got internet, too… Even the libraries at Oxford, if you're really desperate.”

“Hmmm… And I suppose… some of this is new. Bi-directional wards aren’t common… Someone’s got to invent these things in the first place.”

They’ll spend some time later sketching out ideas, but what they’re already doing has a similar talismanic effect. The act of distributing all those personal items around _their own side_ of the cottage, a space that's going to truly belong to both of them… Zirfl’s favourite sculptures displayed below Crowley’s framed daVinci sketch, Crowley’s plants placed carefully where water will never drip on Zirfl’s books… There is a tentative balance being created here: of chaos and order, light and dark, soft and sharp, and all of it adding up to something that could, eventually, be called Home.


	27. who by high ordeal, who by common trial

By the time Crowley and Zirfl have finished moving in and begun to get used to the rhythm of life in Tadfield, it’s the end of Elul and the New Year is almost upon them. A new school year and the last warmth of Autumn have kept The Them busy enough lately that Crowley and Zirfl haven’t seen them except to wave in passing.

Anathema left Crowley the contact information of the Jewish Centre in Oxford. A website that looks to have been coded by Newt or possibly Hastur, eventually reveals that for the High Holy Days there’s two varieties of services, attended by Oxfordians of all streams of Judaism. Crowley has double checked that it’s not necessary to reserve tickets in advance like it would be at one of the bigger shuls in London.

They take the train to Oxford (less stressful than Crowley trying to drive, even in a smaller city), and walk the last few blocks to the address Crowley’s got mapped out on his phone. As they approach, the map becomes unnecessary. They can just follow the small clusters of people dressed in their yontif best, many already wearing tallit prayer shawls, some with yarmulkes or wide-brimmed fedoras, some bare-headed, and others with their hair wrapped in tichels. The sky only threatens rain, probably to the relief of those who don’t drive or carry umbrellas on a day of rest.

Crowley and Zirfl pause just off the pavement, in the entrance to a shop that’s not yet open. Crowley hands over his cane for a moment, fishes in his coat pockets and produces a kippah in a subdued tartan, which he pins among Zirfl’s curls, then takes the chance to cup Zirfl’s face in his hands. Being able to just appreciate each other in public without fear?… that’ll never get old.

“Thank you, dearest.” Zirfl beams up at him, then plunges one hand among the curls at Crowley’s nape and pulls him in for a quick, chaste kiss.

Crowley goes red, but he’s also grinning. He glances at the other congregants, relieved that no one is paying them much attention. “Looks like it’ll be a bit crowded. You sure you’re up for this?”

Zirfl nods, quickly. It’s not London… how overwhelming could it be?

Crowley gives Zirfl’s hands a quick squeeze, then finds and pins on his own kippah (black with a subtle star-chart print). “Right, then.” He takes his cane back and soon they are striding towards the Jewish Centre.

The building isn’t an imposing one: most of it a sprawling single storey, of light red brick with green metal roofs in geometric shapes. Some of the historic London synagogues (or even the historic Oxford one, later turned into a church) are splendid specimens of architecture. This, being a community center as well as a _shul_ , has the look of a primary school designed in the late 20th century, and Crowley vaguely wonders if he should’ve taken credit for it. Oh well, too late now, and better off that way.

The parts of the property that aren’t walled are protected by a conspicuously sturdy metal fence (albeit painted a deep cobalt, and decorated with stars of david). Amateur guards inside all the entrances check purses and bags on arrival. Crowley has to hand over his cane until they've satisfied themselves that it doesn't somehow turn into a weapon. He freezes for a moment, as his imagination, unbidden, conjures up countless ways to sabotage a building or hurt a great number of people, that they're _not_ taking precautions against. He wants to tell the security volunteers, but that would draw undue attention, and they’ve no reason to listen to a random stranger. Crowley tries to stifle the worrying part of his mind. The remaining five percent unfortunately hasn’t had nearly enough coffee, so he’s glad to take Zirfl’s arm and be guided towards the main sanctuary.

Noticing his dark glasses, an usher tries to offer Crowley a Braille _machzor_.

“Thanks, but… not blind. Migraines.” It’s not even a lie.

The young usher grimaces in recognition. “Oh, migraines can fuck right off!” She realises too late that this was perhaps inappropriate, and hides her face in her tallit.

“You’re right, and you should say it,” says Crowley, earning a wide-eyed, if somewhat teary, smile from the usher.

“I believe you’ve just made a friend,” says Zirfl.

_Should probably get my own tallis_ , Crowley thinks. There are public ones to borrow near the door and he accepts one, does the blessing, drapes it over his head and then arranges it correctly on his shoulders; all the gestures and phrases coming back even after so long. But Crowley finds it soothing to imagine choosing his own prayer shawl in the dimensions and colours he prefers. The last time he had a tallit, they only came in white with narrow dark stripes. Now you’ve got options; loads of modern patterns and darker colours, even styles marketed to women.

In the Orthodox way, there’s a mechitza dividing the men’s and women's sides of the sanctuary. Due to their current appearance, they both sit on the men's side to avoid unnecessary offence, and so Crowley can guide Zirfl through the service.

The Rosh HaShanah morning liturgy is quite long, and for Zirfl it passes in a blur of almost-unfamiliar Hebrew, shofar blasts, sitting and standing… The machzor is printed much too small for him, even the English and even with his special specs, so Zirfl chooses to just let the words flow round him most of the time, instead of trying to keep up. His eyes are on Crowley beside him, more than on the cantor and rabbi.

In a packed place of worship, there is plenty for an ex-angel to perceive, and this is the first time since being marked Fallen that Zirfl has been in any sort of enclosed space with hundreds of people. He finds that it’s not just concentrations of love that he senses now, but all sorts of strong feelings and intentions, with almost no capacity to demarcate them one from another. The congregants’ passions for their community, for their history, for the music, for the Hebrew language, for the readings, for the Almighty, plus the extraneous thoughts of those whose minds wander: it all adds up to an almost unbearably thick emotional stew. Zirfl is beginning to float… away from his seat up towards the peak of the synagogue roof. He’s reminded of flitting round Earth without his corporation (he can see it below him, still standing quite straight and correct next to Crowley’s)… What if he gets lost again? In the absence of heartbeats, his metaphorical wings (not his actual ones, still tucked away in another dimension) flail against the atmosphere and pummel the rafters, disturbing cobwebs and ghosts…

Crowley is squeezing the arm of Zirfl’s corporation, pointing at something in the machzor. From a distance, Zirfl tries to will his corporation’s eyes to focus. He squints, blinks… not quite floating anymore. The _Unetanneh Tokef_ , a liturgical poem meant to impress participants with the Almighty’s greatness. Perhaps ironically, Zirfl has missed the previous part that goes like this:

> The great shofar is sounded, and a still, soft voice is heard;  
> the angels tremble, fear and dread seize them, and they exclaim: the Day of Judgment is here!  
> The heavenly hosts are to stand in judgment, for even they will not be found meritorious in Your eyes in judgment.

But the last section begins:

> On Rosh Hashanah it is inscribed,  
> And on Yom Kippur it is sealed.  
> How many shall pass away and how many shall be born,  
> Who shall live and who shall die,  
> Who shall reach the end of his days and who shall not,

Crowley is pointing at the next bit:

> Who shall perish by water and who by fire, _Mi b’mayim, v’mi b’esh_

Crowley’s whole being flames with the memory of Aziraphale’s Trial in Heaven. The exact events are still clouded, but Zirfl feels clearer than he’s ever felt anything before, Crowley’s incandescent rage (hotter than the hellfire he stood in) at the Archangels on his behalf. And stronger yet than that, blazes Crowley’s love for him. Love so intense, so unadulterated by duty or propriety, that only a _fallen_ angel could understand.

Brought to ground, Zirfl is standing next to Crowley again; the poem is concluding, with a line to the effect that _tshuvah, v’tfilah, v’tzedakah_ (repentance, prayer, and charity) avert the Almighty’s severe decree.

There are more horn blasts, the Kohan’s blessing (during which Crowley pulls one side of his tallit round Zirfl’s shoulders) and yet more soundings of the shofar to end the service. It’s an organic sound, like a sentient being moaning and wailing by turns.

And suddenly, it’s all too much for Zirfl. He sinks to his chair even before the ark is closed, and curls inwards, covering his face with his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for any errors in description...


	28. who in these realms of love, who by something blunt

Straight away, Crowley bends down to wrap Zirfl in his arms, trying to soothe him.

Their seats are at the very back and next to the mechitza, so they’re not in anyone’s way. But people are moving all around them, greeting each other, taking their leave after a five-hour service to meet their families for the much-awaited yontif meals (probably including apples, honey, and pomegranates). A few vague _shana tovah_ greetings are directed at them, but noone really stops to talk to Crowley, other than a few who wonder if Zirfl is alright.

He’s definitely not; his body shakes with silent sobs.

Crowley tries to get him to stand up, “c’mon love, let’s get you someplace quieter,” but Zirfl is so far overloaded that any conscious movement is just too complex to manage. Crowley looks around. He was trying to avoid miracles, especially on a day of rest and all. But this is an emergency. He wills them unnoticed, then he pulls out his wings from their usual dimension, hides Zirfl inside, and apparates them away.

They don’t quite make it to Tadfield; they don’t even make it out of Oxford. Probably just as well; the effort of getting them all that way would have knocked Crowley clean out. At least they’re in a park, with benches to sit on. And at least the park is mostly empty, although that’s likely due to the rain that’s just started in earnest. Crowley keeps them both dry inside his wings; in the safe darkness, he first takes his own glasses off, then Zirfl’s.

The ex-angel clings to him, face pressed damply into Crowley’s shoulder. The only sounds for a while are Zirfl’s ragged breathing and the downpour splashing on feathers. Only once, Zirfl lets out a shriek that sounds eerily like the call of the shofar. He must know the noise is painfully loud; hot tears of shame follow and he doubles in on himself again, apologizing furiously, moaning and biting the heel of his own hand in frustration.

“It’s okay, love. It’s okay. There’s nobody around. And even if there was… it’s okay. You’ll be okay soon.” Crowley holds Zirfl firmly but gently, until finally his weeping calms to a whimper and his breathing quietens. The water still drains off Crowley’s wings like off a proverbial duck, but the day has turned bitter cold. He realises, belatedly, that he’s run off with the tallit from the synagogue. He’ll have to send a donation and a replacement later. After kissing the tzitzit that hang from the corners (just in case), it only takes Crowley a tiny miracle to turn the prayer shawl into a much larger and thicker expanse of wool that he can tuck round them both.

Crowley hasn’t stopped time, but there’s a sense that (at least inside their little shelter) time is an illusion. Neither of them has any idea how long they stay that way. Crowley doesn’t feel so great, but he’s trying his …blessedest? to stay patient, as he strokes away tear stains from Zirfl’s face.

At length, Zirfl opens his eyes. Still all he can say is “I’m sorry,” but he reaches up and massages Crowley’s temples… it helps a little.

“It’s not your fault, love” says Crowley, rather more fiercely than intended.

Zirfl startles, looks ready to cry again.

“Okay, so you get even more overwhelmed… around crowds since your… injuries. But it’s not your fault. If anything, it’s Above’s fault for… for hurting you.”

“But now _I’ve_ hurt _you_. And I’ve spoilt your… New Year,” Zirfl’s voice is hoarse and unsteady, but at least he’s saying something other than a mantra of _sorry_ s.

“Hey, It was almost time to leave anyway. And you know I’m just as likely to get headaches…” Crowley shrugs, “just breathing wrong, or looking out a window. It’s pretty random.”

“Will you be alright?”

“Sure, and so will you. Hey! I could go for some dessert, wotcha fancy?”

Zirfl considers. He doesn’t smile yet, but he’s not choking back tears either. “Maybe something with apples and honey, in honour of the day?”

“I like how you think, angel!” Crowley puts his dark glasses back on, squints into his phone, and finds that they’re not far from some decent cafes, or from the train station for later. He opens his wings just a sliver: the sun’s come out. It’ll probably cheer up Zirfl, but the walk to the cafe isn’t gonna be fun. _Walk? Fuck._ He must’ve forgot his cane back at the shul. Crowley obviously managed for quite a while without a mobility aid, but he probably needed one long ago, and Zirfl’s thoughtful gift really does help with balance, wonky joints, and so on. He’s too tired to just apparate it, and Zirfl must be even more exhausted. Oh well, nothing for it…

Crowley’s wings return to their own dimension as he slings himself upright. Mid-writhe, he feels something go very wrong, and pulls in a sharp breath. He sways for a moment, grasping his hip, then sits back down heavily. “Bollocks to walking, fuck dessert, bugger this whole blasted day! Cannot _one_ thing just go to plan?!” He slams cold fists into already aching legs. He doesn’t meet Zirfl’s eyes; couldn’t bear the disappointment he imagines there.

But Zirfl has felt every pain, of course. And now his Crowley is shouting. Very deliberately not at him, but still… if only he could help… He stares intently, only half-seeing, at Crowley’s hands, still balled-up at his sides. Zirfl focuses his mind’s eye back in the Jewish Centre, on the snake-head cane neatly stowed under their seats. He’s weary, but he can… probably… manage this… He snaps his fingers (whether for old time’s sake or just for the drama of it) and the cane appears in Crowley’s lap.

Crowley stares, but his hands unclench to catch it from rolling away. “Did you do that?!”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Good old bastard angel. Always one last trick up your sleeve.”

Now Zirfl _does_ smile, a proud grin that inconveniently turns into a yawn. He’s ever so tired.

They walk to the nearest of the cafes. Progressing as slowly as they need, leaning on each other. Some passersby think they’re drunk, and shout rude things; together, they can laugh it off.

Zirfl orders a gigantic plate of apple crumble with honey-vanilla ice cream (two forks and two spoons, please) and Crowley asks for two strong coffees with extra cream. Zirfl miracles some brandy into their drinks, and they toast to the new year, may it be even sweeter than how it’s starting out. They don’t talk much more, but it’s a cozy, relieved sort of silence.

After polishing off all that, it’s only a short walk to the station where a train is leaving soon for points south, first stop Tadfield.


	29. and who shall i say is calling

The second day of Rosh HaShana, neither Zirfl or Crowley feel up to being around people. They wake up gradually, warm and safe together, late morning creeping in round the edges of the drapes.

“Urgh,” says Crowley.

“Mnh?” says Zirfl.

Crowley stretches out an arm, winces, but brings his fingers to rest in the silver floof of Zirfl’s hair. “Alright, love?”

Zirfl glances round doubtfully, as if the now-familiar halflight held any answers. “Possibly. How’re you?”

Crowley extends another limb or two, and considers. “Glad we’ve retired.”

“Mmm… But… That is to say… Despite all the…?” Zirfl gestures, trying to clutch words out of the air. “Even though everything’s… _difficult_ , now?” By ‘everything’, he means his own brain and Crowley’s body… without the benefit of unlimited miracles that used to make their lives easier.

Crowley raises a long index finger in objection. “Yeah, but… everything was _impossible_ , before.” By ‘everything’, he means _them_ , and _this_.

Zirfl melts. “Oh, Crowley.” Careful fingers smooth away loose curls that threaten to obscure those golden eyes, the pad of his thumb brushes against that softly protruding lower lip.

Crowley feels momentarily emboldened. “Do you, erm-- Nah. Eugh,” he grimaces.

“Go ahead, dear. It’s okay, I’m quite recovered from yesterday. I think. Probably.”

“Give us a cuddle, first.”

Aziraphale’s hugs have always been, objectively speaking, probably the best in the universe. He’s got just the right combination of strength and softness, always smells pleasant, wears velvety-textured clothing. The nervous way he sometimes sits or stands, almost at attention, as if waiting to be told what he’s done wrong again… all of that disappears when he’s got someone, especially Crowley, surrounded by the full focus of his affection. Heaven the workspace, Heaven the bureaucracy, they’ve got nothing on this earthly heaven: the physical embrace of a being whose speciality is love.

Crowley is basically a skeleton (with entirely too many vertebrae) in a tight suit, and that’s not the sort of body that sets people at ease, or even a useful kind of unease. He learnt long ago to compensate by turning all his ‘tells’ of pain and physical wrongness into a Style… to great effect, especially at a certain distance. On the rare occasions when he has to make physical contact with anyone, he makes sure they feel a firm handshake (or, of course, an encouraging shove in the direction of trouble), but he’s rarely _sought out_ touch from anyone other than Aziraphale. What Crowley lacks in cushioning, though, he makes up for in tenderness. Knowing himself to be uncomfortably bony, Crowley would’ve been content to caress Aziraphale delicately, to skim the warm contours of his angel’s presence. It still amazes him that he’s allowed ever so much closer.

Crowley with his head on Zirfl’s shoulder, adoring him from nearby; Zirfl’s arms protectively encircling Crowley’s sharp shoulders. They let their hearts beat to feel the synchrony, they breathe to take in the scent of each other; instinctively doing things the human way, the better to appreciate the moment.

The unsilent quiet of just _being_ together is so satisfying that Crowley no longer wants to disturb it.

But eventually, Zirfl remembers. “Crowley, dear? You were going to ask me something?”

“Oh! Augh! Erm… D’you wanna talk? About yesterday?”

“Must we? It’s-- Oh, _fuck_ , I’m _sorry_!”

“Hey, hey-- Don’t-- I know, love, I know it’s hard.”

“I should never have--”

“I know, you want to be cool…”

“I’ve _never_ been cool, as you’re always the first to remind me.”

“Well, whatever. You want… you want life to be predictable… controllable--”

“Ah?”

“And, it’s not anymore. It’s--”

“It’s _hard_.”

“Yeah, yeah it is. And we can’t just miracle it all away, anymore.”

“Is _this_ what it’s like being human? Those poor buggers…”

“For my money, they’ve either got it worse because they’ve gotta do _everything_ the hard way, or better because they’re used to it. I can’t decide.”

“I suppose we should be glad of the advantages we’ve got.” But Zirfl doesn’t, somehow, seem very glad at all.

“I guess. One thing ya notice, as a demon, though… everyone’s got _some_ kind of trouble…”

“About that. Erm… Crowley?”

“What’s wrong, love?”

“Do you… erm… That is to say… What do you feel?”

“Warm,” beams Crowley, deliberately missing the point. He snuggles, if possible, even closer.

“Silly serpent. I mean, what can you _sense_? From people. You know, like how angels can sense love.”

“Oof,” says Crowley. “Everything, sort of.”

“Really?!”

“Well, not _everything_ -everything. More sort of… _bits_ of everything. From nearly everyone.”

“Are you meant to be able to read their minds?”

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s more like… we can read their _vibes_.”

“Crowley, you _know_ I’m rubbish at these modern expressions…”

“It’s been _half a century_ , angel,” Crowley mutters into Zirfl’s tartan pyjama top. “Point is, demons can sense a general idea of how a person is doing, or possibly their intentions. If there’s lots of people, it all gets sort of… scrambly.” He gestures, rotating his hands around each other as if mixing dough.

“Ah. That. _That’s_ what happened at the synagogue.”

“So, not your usual… people trouble?” Aziraphale always had days when he could be the most sparkling conversationalist with any number of strangers, followed by other days when he didn’t feel up to seeing anyone at all… a selective or occasional sort of extroversion, Crowley assumed.

Of course, after his (near-)apocalyptic crisis of faith, and even more so after his injuries, Zirfl has been more confident with Crowley, but more cautious with most others: the balance has swung away from social activity. And Crowley couldn’t say he minded at first, as they had so much catching up to do now that they’re free to be together properly. But if officially Fallen Zirfl has been cursed with demon-standard emotional permeability? (not that Crowley has encountered the term, but he knows the feeling)… _Oy. That must be overwhelming as Hell. Lichrally._

Zirfl describes the staticky mental broadcasts that bombarded him during the service, “like an old wireless picking up a cacophony of signals from every direction,” and his out-of-corporation dissociative episode (not that either of them would know to call it that).

“Angel, I’m so sorry. I must’ve made it even worse, going on about the trial.”

“No, no. That was… Please don’t apologise. It was _glorious_. I wish I’d been there.”

“Well, _I don’t_.”

“Why?”

“Those archangels. Utter bastards.” There’s a coldly angry edge to Crowley’s deliberate brevity.

Zirfl still doesn’t remember his superiors, and he’s not sure he wants to.

“Anyway. I guess you feel a bit…” Crowley does a mental search of phrases he’s picked up in an awfully cursory reading of human psychology, “sensory overload?”

“Yes, spot on!”

“Yeah, it’s… a _lot_ , sometimes. It does… get better… once you get used to it.”

“Does it?” Zirfl daren’t hope too much.

“And alcohol helps. How else could I survive Purim?!”

“Crowley, darling?”

“Enh?”

“ _Thank you_. I was so ashamed… well, still am, really. But you… you make me feel… Less broken.”

“You’re…” Crowley’s voice goes infinitely soft, as his hand strokes Zirfl’s cheek. “You’re beautiful, is what you are.”

Zirfl can barely see him through a haze of tears, but he buries his face in Crowley’s curls and murmurs, “and you, my dearest… you’re magnificent.”


	30. and you know i'm strong and holy, i must do what i've been told

After breakfast, they decide to stream some parts of the second-day Rosh HaShanah service on Crowley’s enormous iPad, which has perfect internet service everywhere, because he expects it to.

It’s a bit hard to follow. “What are they reading?”

Crowley pauses the video. “The Akedah, the binding of Isaac. You remember him, right? Dad takes him for a walk in the hills, next thing he knows he’s the bloody sacrifice.”

“Did he ever speak to Abraham again after that day?”

“Would you?!” says Crowley, as if it’s rhetorical. As if he doesn’t still talk to his Divine Parent, even now, after everything.

“But the Almighty provided a ram, didn’t She? So after all, Isaac wasn’t meant to die.”

“There _was_ a death, though. Isaac’s mum.”

“I suppose it was the shock?”

“Some say she was, sort of… baited?”

“Your side?--” Zirfl realises what he’s said, goes red with shame, and grabs Crowley’s arm a bit desperately. “So sorry, dearest. Old habits, and all that?”

“Don’t worry about it, _angel_ …”

“That only makes it worse, not better. I should _never_ have assumed the worst for so long.”

“Eunghh,” Crowley shrugs, not meeting his eyes.

Zirfl must have noticed by now that Crowley has yet to give a straight answer to these particular apologies, but he mercifully doesn’t push it.

“Point is, _someone_ told Sarah _some_ version of what happened, and it broke her heart. The voice of the shofar is meant to be her crying out.”

“Ohh…” Zirfl hadn’t made the connection before.

“Some say it was Isaac himself who told her what Abraham almost did, others say it was an… Adversary… who came to deceive. Wasn’t _me_ , is all I know.”

“Of course not,” Zirfl’s indignant, “You’d _never_ do something so cruel.”

Crowley does meet his gaze this time, reading the truth in those silver-green eyes. He can feel the… _vibes_ … of the dissonance between the angelic training and what _his_ angel, especially after Falling, _knows_. Dare Crowley believe, despite both their missteps, that this is what Zirfl _really_ thinks of him? After all is said and done, the ex-demon quite likes hope.

“So, it was a test?” says Zirfl at length.

“That’s the general consensus… if we can say there is one.”

“And Abraham passed it?”

“Some commentators say yes. Because of his _faith_.” Crowley almost spits out the word. Fat lot of good faith had done Aziraphale, when he tried to stop the Great Plan. For some people, Faith and Hope are practically the same thing… Crowley would maintain that he is not one of those people.

“Trusting that the Almighty had a reason for asking him to give up his child? Or trusting that the Almighty would provide a substitute?”

“I think that’s more your speciality, don’t you?”

“Sorry?”

“Well, it’s _ineffable_ , innit?”

“And what do you think?

“Some people say it was HaShem who failed the test. Who failed Abraham.”

“By giving the test in the first place?”

“She didn’t _have_ to ask something unreasonable. But She’s always doing that. Putting her supposed favourite people in impossible situations, just to see what happens.”

Zirfl makes a few noises of objection, then thinks better of it, swallows and starts over. “Like She did to us.”

“Somehow I don’t think we’re her favourites, just now,” says Crowley, thinking of all those heavy silences.

“I suppose it depends…”

“On what?”

“On whether or not the Almighty ever gets bored. You’ve got to admit, Earth has been distinctly… _interesting_ , lately.”

“You do know that’s a traditional curse, right? ‘May you live in interesting times.’”

* * *

They find themselves honouring the day-of-rest part of the holy days, if nothing else. After millennia of stealing moments with each other while always metaphorically looking over their shoulders, there’s still nothing like the freedom to just relax together. And now that Zirfl’s able to enjoy his books again, it’s like some of the best things have almost returned to normal. Especially when a chilly damp evening provides the perfect excuse for staying in, with a fire in the hearth and plenty of good wine in their glasses.

“Crowley?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you able to enter a synagogue without pain? Why am I, for that matter?!”

“Wot?” Crowley vaguely tries to remember the last time he did anything without pain.

“Not _pain_ -pain,” Zirfl gestures the (considerable) length of Crowley’s body. “I mean, feet, Ow-ow-ow.”

It’s not a very good mimicry, but Crowley smiles indulgently, anyway.

“You know, I haven’t been in a church since my--”

“I know, love… We’ve been together every day since… your injury.” Behind Crowley’s impatience, there’s still a bit of wonder.

“I didn’t want to. Still angry at Her for the whole… Metatron… Apocashambles… and for letting Above do what they did… Still am, really. But… I was afraid to find out how much it’d hurt.”

Crowley wonders what he should say. Zirfl deserves honesty, but not guilt about that one time during the war. What if he’s still fragile from yesterday? “You ever accidentally make your cocoa too hot?”

“Hmm… I suppose I must have…”

“It’s sorta like that. But your feet, not your tongue.”

Zirfl, makes a small shocked gasp and lifts his feet off the floor.

“Or, you know, your hands, if you tried to hold onto any consecrated objects.”

Zirfl laughs at his own reaction. “Silly me! You know, Crowley… I’m not brave like you.”

“You _aaaare_.”

“How?”

“Re-thinking your whole belief system based on what you observed about reality? In front of both our bosses and all the heavenly and infernal hosts?! That’s not something you see every day. Not to mention the whole facing-down-the-forces-of-Hell thing… In pants and a singlet, no less.” The comic relief part of Crowley’s little speech fails, hard. But he presses on, “and look at you now, just look how much you’ve been through, how much has changed and you’re… you’re still going, you’re still _you_.”

“I just-- I didn’t want-- My darling Crowley, I would’ve missed you so _terribly_.” His voice quavers on the last word.

Crowley fairly lunges across the sofa, intent on cuddling Zirfl out of any melancholy. “C’mon love. We’re safe, now; we’re together…”

“For now. What if…”

And it’s not like Crowley hasn’t worried too, so much so that he’s rarely let Zirfl out of his sight. “We’ll manage, love. We’ll figure something out, like we always have.”

“D’you really think so?”

“Yep. You forget how strong you are, angel.” Crowley’s relieved to see Zirfl looking less pale, but that might just be the wine. He refills both their glasses, anyway.

“But tell me about the consecrated ground?”

“Oh, yeah! So, that’s not really a thing in Jewish spaces. Not the ground, anyway. _Sheydim_ , what I probably should’ve been… We’re required to follow the commandments, so we’d have to be able to go to shul.”

“You were meant to be a… Shade’im? Wozzat then?”

“One _sheyd_. Many _sheydim_. Jewish sort of demons. Dunno how I ended up working for the _christian_ Hell, come to think of it.”

“You never said. Bureaucratic error, d’you reckon?”

“Knowing the way they operate Below… probably. And it didn’t seem important… until later.”

“And to request a transfer… Oof, imagine the paperwork.”

“Right?! And by then, well, I already knew you… and there was our Arrangement… So I just sort of… stayed, really.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m sorry… for all the times we’ve had,” Zirfl is on the nostalgic side of tipsy as he tops up both glasses.

“Wiling and thwarting…” Crowley grins, raising an eyebrow. Then, abruptly, a mental penny drops. “Of course, there’s the Torah.”

“Wot?”

“I mean. At shul. Demons shouldn’t really touch the Torah scrolls. I’m not sure what would happen, but I’ve heard it’s just… not done.” Now it’s Crowley’s turn to be a bit wistful.

“Well, surely that sort of thing doesn’t come up terribly often?”

“Simchas Torah is in less than three weeks.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, are you sure you’re still a… Sheyd?”

“What else would I be?” Crowley refrains from mentioning aardvarks this time.

“Is there a way to find out? We _are_ retired, after all.”

“I guess I could ask a Rabbi. But then I’d have to tell them I’m not Human.”

“And that doesn’t always work out. Hmm… Mmmm…”

Crowley’s running his fingers through Zirfl’s hair and tries to remember to keep that hand gentle even though he’s just hit upon an idea. “Doesn’t it drive you _mad_ sometimes, how much we don’t know?!” He gesticulates with the _other_ hand, then has to miracle a splash of wine back into his glass before it hits the sofa.

“ _Ars longa vita brevis est._ Well. Rather less _brevis_ , in our case…”

“See, that’s my point exactly. Humans have these puny little lifespans and, it might take them a few generations or centuries, but they manage to figure out heaps of things about their own kind and their world. We don’t have anything like that for… whatever we are.”

“Ætherial--”

“Yeah, yeah, and occult beings. Except we dunno what we are now that we’ve packed it in.” His fingertips encounter the slight dent that remains in Zirfl’s skull. “We don’t even know,” Crowley’s voice catches, “how to fix anything.”

“You’re good at… computery things…”

“What’s that got to do-- Wait--”

“Yes, why don’t you start some sort of… What’s that world wide web encyclopædia you like so much?”

“Angel, you _know_ it’s called Wikipedia.”

“So, why don’t you start a wikipædia, of ætherial _and occult_ knowledge?”

“With _what_? My beef is, We. Don’t. Know. Enough.”

“Well, how do the Humans do it?”

Crowley takes a swig from the wine bottle, then remembers he has a glass. He tries to takes a swig from that and finds it empty. “Oh.” He stares at the bottle for a moment, then fills his glass, pensively regarding the red swirls. “Ohhh. The Humans. They do it _together._ Zirfl, love, you’re a bloody genius.”

“Thank you, dear.” Zirfl presents his teasing smile for a kiss.

Crowley’s aim isn’t so bad, yet. The night is young.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter, even more so than others, is indebted to the aspiring rabbis, cantors &c. of the jewish g.o. discord

**Author's Note:**

> please write any concrits, britpicking, or other comments? what works and what doesn't, etc.
> 
> NOTE: unsure when I will be back

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [illustrations for "its duty is to harm me..." and G.O. in general](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20816759) by [natalunasans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalunasans/pseuds/natalunasans)




End file.
